


no, I have never (known a love like this)

by Penda



Series: mistletoe & honeysuckle [1]
Category: LazyTown
Genre: Blood, Developing Relationship, Gratuitous use of italics, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Inaccurate Depictions of Weather, M/M, Magic, Mild Horror, Minor Violence, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Slow-ish burn, Suspension Of Disbelief, Trust Issues, completely made up elvish religious beliefs, completely made up folklore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:23:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 34,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9382406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Penda/pseuds/Penda
Summary: Íþróttaálfurinn and Glanni are playing the age old game of cat and mouse, only with a lot more flirting than is usually involved. But the rules are about to change, and they must change with them.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Edit: you would not believe how hard it is to write a summary for this without spoiling anything, but I have done my best. If I can come up with anything better it might change again, just a heads up, in case anyone wonders about the change.
> 
> I've gotten very attached to these two recently, and since there's less content for them I thought I'd try my hand at writing something for them. With plot. Oh dear.  
> I have a rough framework worked out for this so I can keep track of all my ideas, so hopefully it turns out to be a coherent read. Feedback is appreciated, just so I know I'm keeping things on the right track :')
> 
> Shout out to my best friend Warren for his feedback and for listening to me worry about the quality of my writing <3
> 
> The title is taken from a song, which I will reveal when the fic is finished.

It had been such a good scam too, Glanni thought wistfully, heels clicking as he ran down the alley. If that fool had been just an hour or two later he would have gotten away clean. Well, clean in a manner of speaking; the dye he'd been using had ruined his only spare set of clothes and would take weeks to come off his fingers. Good thing his disguise had required gloves; for the handling of 'antiques', you know.

PrideTown was always the best place to make a quick buck, so to speak. Rich people were always the easiest to scam, and PrideTown was nothing if not rich. All you had to do was make up some fancy story about rare gemstones and you could sell them some plain old crystal quartz dyed a funny colour for a hefty sum. Really, it was too easy. He'd taken some vaguely antiquated looking jewellery he'd spotted mixed into a jumbled auction lot, inset his newly dyed crystals, and BAM! Easy money. And of course 'The Lost Jewels of Insert-Made-Up-Name-Here' was a well known story that _everyone_ knew, so of course _you_ must have heard of them, distinguished sir and madame, and wouldn't they look _lovely_ displayed up there with your hunting trophies? Of course they would! And they could be yours for just this small fee...

Rich people, he'd found, would always pretend to know what you were talking about so as not to appear lesser than anyone they considered below their station, such as a humble antiques dealer who just so happened to be in possession of some rare items. You could see them coming a mile away, and salesman disguises were so _easy_. At least he still had his money. If he ran fast enough he might make at least be able to stash it somewhere-

He heard rapid footsteps behind him, eating up the pavement like it was nothing. Then again, maybe not; he was already out of breath, and the heels weren't doing him any favours. Stupid heroes and their healthy eating and muscular physiques. The footsteps were gaining on him.

He ducked into a different alley, clutching his bag tightly. Would it kill him to let him go, just this once? Probably, actually. He was so moral and upstanding he might just keel over at the thought of letting him go. But this scam wasn't even _hurting_ anyone. Well, not really. The Decaden family had money to spare, the amount they'd given Glanni for the rocks was a considerable sum to him, but was pocket change for them. PrideTown was easy money, and money was something he needed right now. His last few cons hadn't panned out and this one was supposed to have seen him through the next few months; he always needed more money in winter.

So to be perfectly honest, he was _annoyed_. Íþróttaálfurinn could have let him go, but _no_ , that wasn't 'morally correct' or 'decent'. He was trying to make an un-honest living here! He wasn't really in the mood to play the game. But he would. He always did. He had a weakness for muscles and twinkly eyes, and when it got right down to it, the game was _fun_. Usually he wasn't being chased by anyone nearly so attractive.

“GLANNI!”

Shame he had to ruin it by opening his mouth.

A hand caught his collar, forcing him to come to an abrupt stop, lest he cut of his own airway. His heels skidded on the wet ground and a firm but gentle hand caught his upper arm, steadying him. He tipped his head back, seeing a smirking face above him.

“ _Gotcha_ ,” Íþróttaálfurinn said.

\---

A scuffle filled few minutes later Glanni had been handcuffed (using a pair loaned from Officer Obtuse) and then been rather humiliatingly thrown over the hero's shoulder when he had refused to walk. Even worse, Íþróttaálfurinn had lobbed his bag of money through the Decaden family's open window with expert precision on the way past to the hot air balloon. There went his winter budget, he thought miserably.

“Stealing is not nice Glanni,” Íþróttaálfurinn teased.

Glanni could _hear_ the playful smirk in his voice, and he resisted the urge to try and kick him; he didn't want to risk being dropped.

“As we both know; _I am not nice_. Anyway, how do you know I'm not stealing from the rich to give to the poor?” he said, affecting as haughty an air as he could manage while he was slung over someone's shoulder.

“Are you?” demanded Íþróttaálfurinn.

“Yes?”

“Really?”

“Yes. I'm stealing from the rich and giving to me. _I'm_ poor.”

Íþróttaálfurinn shook his head, but Glanni could hear the smile in his voice when he spoke. _Point to him_.

“You know, you could get a job.”

“With my criminal record?” he scoffed. “Besides, it sounds too much like hard work.” Too many rules, too many other people, far too complicated. A life of crime was much, _much_ easier.

“Oh, and your cons don't involve any work or planning?”

Honestly, he should be banned from using sarcasm. It was not at all becoming of a hero.

“That's different.”

“Why?”

“Because I enjoy them.”

Íþróttaálfurinn stopped, and Glanni realised they must have reached the basket. He hated this bit. Heights did not agree with him

“You know,” Íþróttaálfurinn sighed, slipping his recently caught quarry from his shoulder, looking up at him with too honest eyes. Glanni's skin began to crawl, not liking where this was going.

“Having a job doesn't mean you have to do something you don't enjoy. I'm sure you could get a job doing something you like!”

Glanni sniffed, not liking how presumptuous the other man was being. This was getting too personal; personal was _not_ part of the game.

“Like what?” he asked, making sure to look down his nose at Íþróttaálfurinn. It wasn't hard, given their difference in height. Plus the heels.

Íþróttaálfurinn faltered, and Glanni felt pettily satisfied about it.

“Uh...”

“Exactly!”

“There must be _something_.”

“Don't presume to know that much about me,” Glanni snapped. He would not tolerate help from this man, or anyone else for that matter. But especially not him. _This wasn't part of the game_. He was supposed to chase him, not interfere with his life choices.

All of a sudden, Íþróttaálfurinn looked a million miles away.

“No...I guess I shouldn't” he said absently.

Glanni refused to feel guilty about the sad far off look in Íþróttaálfurinn's eyes. A look that he had put there.

\---

Glanni was sulking. Usually, he'd gotten that stage out of the way by now and had moved onto playful banter and or flirting. Íþróttaálfurinn was a little...concerned. Had he done something? Well, aside from foiling his plans, which was par for the course with them anyway. Was it because of the job thing? He hadn't thought it a particularly sensitive subject to bring up, but then again, this was Glanni, who frequently overreacted to small things, and under-reacted to big things, and on top of that Íþróttaálfurinn knew very little about him. He was a criminal whose bark was far worse than his bite and he liked to play dress up and get other people do to the hard work for him. That was about it, really.

He'd like to know more, though. If Glanni would ever let him. He sighed.

They passed miles of farmland beneath them, a green patchwork quilt stretched out below, dotted with little sheep and the occasional farmhouse. They would pass by the mountains soon, then over MayhemTown, and then finally back to LazyTown. It was a shame they couldn't admire it; they were flying relatively low, because the last time Íþróttaálfurinn had flown them through a cloud Glanni had complained for _hours,_ and it was not an experience he was eager to repeat.

“What were you even _doing_ in PrideTown anyway? You're _never_ in PrideTown.” Glanni's complained, bringing him out of his reverie.

“Oh, I had some things to do,” he replied vaguely, smiling. He'd gotten a tip off that Glanni was in the area and had jumped at the chance to ruffle his feathers. It was a bit childish really. Not very becoming of a hero. It was hard to scold himself for it though, with Glanni sitting scowling while the wind ruffled his short hair and turned his cheeks pink. It was _cute_.

“Well you might have waited a little longer” he grumbled, shivering slightly.

“Cold, are we Glæpur?” Íþróttaálfurinn teased.

He must be, Íþróttaálfurinn realised, in just the catsuit. _And_ it was winter. Glanni eyed him, expression changing abruptly, slipping into a predatory grin as he sensed an opening. He adopted what he probably thought was a subtle pose, but nothing was subtle in skin tight leather. He leaned back against the basket, one leg bent, one stretched out in front of him, and smirked up at Íþróttaálfurinn. The elf started fixedly at the other man's face so he wouldn't look at where his cuffed hands were currently hanging between his legs. It was a sight that would stay with him for days afterwards, but Glanni didn't need to know that did he?

“What if I am? Are you going to warm me up?”

Ah, they'd reached Íþróttaálfurinn's favourite part of the game. The flirting. One of these days he was going to call Glanni's bluff. He'd like to see how far he could push.

“Well I _could_ ,” he said, in mock consideration “but then who would pilot the balloon? Wouldn't want you falling overboard now would we?”

Fear flickered over Glanni's eyes and Íþróttaálfurinn felt immediately guilty. He'd only meant to tease, but perhaps that wasn't fair when Glanni was so afraid of heights.

“There's a blanket over there. We wouldn't want you to catch a chill now, would we?” he said, smiling softly by way of apology.

Glanni scowled at him, going rather pink in the cheeks; this time it had nothing to do with the cold He did retrieve the blanket however, and pulled it tightly around himself; as usual his pride only stretched so far.

For a few minutes, there was nothing but the sound of the wind and the hiss of the hot air balloon. Then Íþróttaálfurinn's elven ears heard Glanni move behind him, and felt the almost-sensation of a body just millimetres from his own, and resisted very, very hard, the temptation to lean back into the man standing behind him.

“If you're thinking of trying anything,” he said, smiling when he felt Glanni jump “I'd think better of it if I were you. Unless of course, you know how to pilot my balloon back to town?”

“Oh, I'm sure I'd manage,” Glanni murmured in his ear. Íþróttaálfurinn grinned. Definitely his favourite part of the game.

“I think you'd crash, now sit down before you fall down.”

“Oh please, I know the 'falling out of the basket' thing was an empty threat, we're not even that _high_ , what could-”

The basket jerked suddenly, knocked askew by some great unseen force. Glanni took an involuntary step back, looking surprised. Another step, his back had hit the railing, another step, his feet had left the ground-

-Íþróttaálfurinn reached for him-

-but he was gone. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly setting things up, so bear with me! I do apologise for the cliffhanger, it just seemed best pacing wise.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's up for some flashbacks?

“You've got a visitor Glæpur!”

He looked up at the smiling face of a man dressed in far too much yellow, and more alarmingly, pulling it off quite well.

“What do you want now, can't you leave me to rot in peace?” he whined, long limbs curled up onto the too small cot in the police station. He'd had enough of Íþróttaálfurinn's bouncing and restless movements to last him a lifetime.

Íþróttaálfurinn shrugged, falling easily into a handstand. Glanni pulled a face. Couldn't he just stand still? For 5 minutes?

“I just wanted to talk to you,” he said, looking at Glanni upside down.

“Well _don't_.”

Wasn't his public humiliation enough for these people?

“That wasn't very nice you know, what you did,” he continued, conversationally, as if he wasn't talking to a notorious criminal.

“I'm _not_ nice!” Did no one in this town realise he was a master criminal? Would none of them give him the respect and fear he deserved?

“You're right” the other man agreed, flipping himself upright again, and coming close, too close, to the bars of Glanni's cell.“You're not. But I know what people are like here. They're forgiving, sometimes too much so, and I know it's only going to be a matter of time before you get out of there, so I am here to tell you something,” he said, voice low, eyes flashing. “Do not cause trouble for these people again.”

“Or else what?” Glanni said, licking his lips nervously, unable to resist seeing how far he could push. Defiance was second nature to him.

“Or next time I will escort you back to MayhemTown Prison myself, which I know for a fact is nowhere near as nice as where you are right now,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, putting his hands on his hips and frowning disapprovingly at him.

Oh. Glanni had been expecting threats of bodily harm; that's usually how these situations went for him. Interesting.

“Duly noted,” Glanni said, nodding.

\---

Glanni escaped not 3 nights later. The mayor never did press charges.

\---

“That wasn't very nice,” Íþróttaálfurinn complained, rubbing his arm where Glanni had hit him with a table leg. It was three weeks later and they were in the basement of rundown building in MayhemTown surrounded by several unconscious bodies.

“I thought we'd covered that bit already; I'm _not_ nice,” said Glanni sneered, table leg still at the ready in case Íþróttaálfurinn tried anything.

“I was trying to help you!”

“I don't need, or want, your help!”

“You were literally about to get murdered by loan sharks!”

“I could have handled it! I doubt my organs are in any fit state to be sold anyway, so jokes on them,” Glanni crowed, kicking the nearest unconscious body, which grunted. Glanni squeaked, jumping back just in case. Íþróttaálfurinn was looking at him in horror.

“I don't know how you've survived this long. I really don't.”

Glanni swung the table leg up onto his shoulder, grinning smugly.

“Well, by being more charming, handsome, and intelligent than everyone else of course.”

“Oh, and he's _modest_ too. I also don't want to know what you did to get loan sharks after you,” he said, walking over to the window. “The police are on their way, better make yourself scarce.”

“What?”

“Go on. Don't make me regret letting you go,” he said, pointing at Glanni, before jumping out of the window.

“The door is right there!” he screamed after him.

If he never saw Íþróttaálfurinn again it would be too soon.

\--- 

Íþróttaálfurinn picked himself up from the floor, which his face had just been getting better acquainted with. His nose was bleeding profusely, and he was definitely coming out of this with a bruise. He heard laughter behind him, and turned to see Glanni stepping over his carefully concealed tripwire and disappearing down an open manhole cover. He waved his bag full of spark plugs (which he'd stolen under the guise of a mechanic) tauntingly at Íþróttaálfurinn. He wasn't sure he wanted to know what he needed all of those for.

“Your move hero!”

“GLANNI!” Íþróttaálfurinn yelled over the sound of the clattering lid. _Oh, the game was on_.

\---

There was something about Glanni that kept him coming back.

He was certainly the most entertaining person he'd met since he'd left his village, but he couldn't for the life of him figure out why. He was a _criminal,_ he had been awful to the kids, to the town...but there was _something_ he felt like he was missing, a big piece of the puzzle that was Glanni Glæpur.

Íþróttaálfurinn had always been a very curious person. It was the whole reason that he had left home, ventured out into the world of men. Elves were fairly insular in nature, preferring to stick to their own communities, living in retaliative quiet and only occasionally indulging in mischief. Íþróttaálfurinn had never been one for peace and quiet though, and had been told several times that he did not have an 'indoor voice'.

He'd met lots of wonderful and amazing people during his time among humans, but none of them had been quiet like Glanni. None of them were as infuriating as him for one thing. He looked good in leather too, but that was just a bonus.

The only way he was going to figure him out was to keep an eye on him.

\---

He thought about Íþróttaálfurinn a lot, despite his best efforts. He was just so infuriatingly hard to ignore. And he was very, very attractive, but that was besides the point.

\---

“Hello!”

Glanni jumped, having not heard anyone come in. He looked up to find Íþróttaálfurinn leaning against the wall, grinning at him through the bars.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” he said.

“What are _you_ doing here?”

“I heard you'd been arrested for all those stolen car parts, so I came to see you, maybe have a bit of a gloat.”

“Oh, _very_ befitting of a hero such as yourself, good to know the children have such a fine figure to look up to.”

Íþróttaálfurinn just smirked.

At least his nose was still bruised, Glanni thought pettily.

\---

“Ah, so this is why I haven't seen you around.”

Glanni scowled at his cheerful visitor. This was absolutely the last thing he needed.

“Yes, yes, rub it in” he said grumpily, refusing to look Íþróttaálfurinn in the eye.

“Well, this is what you get. At least it's not jail time.”

“No, I'd prefer prison to-to _this_.”

He gestured to the graffiti in front of him with the sponge he was currently using to clean it off.

“You'd prefer being behind bars to community service? _Why_?” Íþróttaálfurinn said disbelievingly. The poor naïve fool knew nothing of the ways of the world. Glanni would have to educate him.

“It's too much work, it's _humiliating_.” And in prison at least he was fed and warm. “ _And_ orange is not my colour; I'd look much better in stripes,” he said haughtily.

To his amazement, Íþróttaálfurinn laughed. A deep, genuine sound that burst forth from his chest, and lasted longer than Glanni thought his attempt at humour really called for. It made his eyes crinkle. It was a good look for him. With a start, Glanni realised they were actually _talking_ to each other. Civilly. Sort of. In fact they were almost having a conversation. Without bars or police sirens getting the way. He became aware that Íþróttaálfurinn was... _looking_ at him.

“What?” he said defensively, clutching his sponge and feeling suddenly on edge.

“Oh, nothing it's just...this is the first time I've seen you without any make up.” Íþróttaálfurinn smiled softly. “It's nice.”

Glanni's face grew hot.

“No it's not!” he hissed back, face twisting.

Íþróttaálfurinn just shrugged.

“If you say so. See you around Glanni!” he said, still smiling, before vaulting off to do god knew what.

Glanni stared after him for a long moment, trying to wrap his head around the fact that Íþróttaálfurinn had _complimented_ him.

\---

He told himself he was staying away from LazyTown because he wouldn't be able to pull off a good con there, because the people there knew him now, and it was too small to try and avoid them. Never mind that his disguises were so good they could have fooled his own mother, if he had had one, never mind that he'd persuaded far more intelligent people that he could be trusted, time and time again.

It just wouldn't be good business sense, to go back there.

It had nothing to do with Íþróttaálfurinn telling him to stay away. Because that would be ridiculous. Glanni Glæpur, did not do what other people told him to do. He also didn't care about disappointing anyone, let alone Íþróttaálfurinn. It was just easier for him, that was all.

\---

He wasn't so bad, Íþróttaálfurinn thought, when you got to know him. He kept things interesting at least.

\---

“Hold still!”

“Ow!”

It was 3 months after their little encounter in the LazyTown police station, only a week since Glanni's community service in PrideTown after the sparkplug incident had ended, and it was approximately their 13th run in with each other in total.

“You're going to need stitches!”

“Obviously!” Glanni said shrilly, holding a grubby looking cloth to the deep gash on his leg. He ignored Íþróttaálfurinn's wince, and protests about the cleanliness of the rag. It didn't matter if it was clean or not, the wound probably already had ink in it after his makeshift printing press had exploded, sending a shard of metal into Glanni's leg. “Get me a needle and thread and I'll take care of it, and you can be on your merry way.”

Íþróttaálfurinn blanched.

“You are not serious!”

“Yes, what else would I- hey!” he protested when the other man tried to lift him up.

“We're going to a hospital!” Íþróttaálfurinn said, sternly.

“No we're not! Then I'll have to go to jail, or _worse_ , community service.”

“...does that look like it's bleeding _faster_ to you?”

“...OK hospital it is.”

\---

“Shouldn't you be in prison?”

“They let me off with a warning.”

“You were caught making counterfeit money!”

Glanni shrugged.

”Must be my natural charm at work.”

Íþróttaálfurinn wondered about that.

\---

Íþróttaálfurinn wasn't so bad, he supposed. At least he was reliable. He was getting used to him popping up when there was trouble. Even if it did sometimes involve jail cells or jumpsuits. And he had to admit it was...fun, to have someone chasing him, in an odd way. Consistent. Glanni had never had consistence before.

\---

He was awoken by the frantic beep of his crystal, followed by a thud, as someone fell into the basket with him. It was 5 months since their first conversation in the LazyTown police station and Íþróttaálfurinn had stopped counting how many times they'd run into each other.

“Hello Íþróttafool.”

“Glanni?” he said, incredulously, squinting to see him in the dim moonlight. “What- what are you doing here, what's wrong?” The crystal was still beeping and he moved towards Glanni in the dark, worry twisting like snakes inside him. His face was ghastly pale, glistening with sweat. The air smelled of iron.

“I-uh- I seem to be having a slight case of stabbing,” came his strangled reply, his shaking hands failing to press hard enough to his abdomen to stop it from bleeding.

Íþróttaálfurinn moved Glanni's hands, pressed his own to the criminal's side, feeling blood spill over his fingers, and spill, and spill and _spill, and it wasn't stopping oh god, it wasn't_ -

“...dont s'pose you could... take me to the hospital again?” Glanni slurred, eyes slipping closed-

“Glanni!” He slapped his cheek lightly, desperately. “Wake up! Come on!”

“Hmm?” he blinked blearily at him.

“Stay awake Glæpur,” he said authoritatively, hoping the tremor in his voice was hidden well enough.

“Don't tell me what to do...” Glanni muttered, slipping unconscious and going alarmingly limp in Íþróttaálfurinn's arms.

 

_Shit._

 

The rest of the night passed in a frantic blur of beeps and buzzing lights and blood, blood, blood. The smell of the hospital turned Íþróttaálfurinn's stomach, and every time he closed his eyes he saw Glanni's face, pale and slack in the moonlight. And he hadn't been able to _do_ _anything_. He could do a thousand push ups easy, could make the flowers grow, but he couldn't _heal_. He didn't have nearly enough magic for that.

He was asleep now, and Íþróttaálfurinn could barely look at him. It was wrong, to see him lying there, face still, without the usual smirk or sneer he was accustomed to. He paced the room, unable to overcome his natural need to move, but loathe to leave Glanni alone in this small, too bright room. His make up was gone and where last time it had been nice to see him without it, now it just felt wrong, like he was seeing something he wasn't supposed to. That seeing Glanni vulnerable was not for his eyes. It made him too human, too breakable.

The illusion of the game was shattered.

He wanted to hit something. Preferably whoever it was that put Glanni in here in the first place, but he couldn't, so he settled for push-ups instead. He had reached 250 by the time Glanni began to stir, and he jumped up at once, hurrying over to his side.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, for once being mindful of the volume of his voice.

“Like I got stabbed” Glanni said blearily.

Íþróttaálfurinn wanted to laugh, but he didn't trust himself not to turn it into a sob, so he said nothing. Instead, he came to sit in the uncomfortable chair by Glanni's bed, and resisted the urge to take his hand.

“Didn't expect you to still be here,” the other man said, voice soft in the hush between them.

Íþróttaálfurinn didn't know what to say to that.

“Why did you come to me?” Íþróttaálfurinn blurted out before he could stop himself.

“I didn't have anywhere else to go,” Glanni muttered sleepily, and it was like a fist to his gut.

He and Glanni weren't friends. They teased each other and ran circles around each other, but they didn't talk about themselves. This small admission was the most personal piece of information Glanni had ever given him. And it hurt.

“You're going to have a scar, I think,” desperately trying to get things back to normal, to their usual push and pull.

“Hmm, it'll go with all of the others,” Glanni smiled vaguely, looking completely out of it. Oh god.

He should stop talking. The medication and the blood loss were lowering Glanni's defences, making him say things he normally wouldn't, he shouldn't talk to him like this- it was- he needed to _stop_.

“Go back to sleep Glanni” he whispered, fighting to keep his voice steady “I'll still be here.”

Glanni smiled at him, closing his eyes.

Íþróttaálfurinn settled into the uncomfortable chair, and waited.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: pace yourself when you're posting these chapters  
> also me: POST POST POST POST POST-

Glanni had fallen out of the basket. No one had _ever_ fallen out of the basket. And his crystal hadn't made a _sound_. He had to be alive. Íþróttaálfurinn refused, _refused,_ to believe otherwise. He'd find him, and he'd make it up to him for teasing him and then letting him-

He'd _find_ him, and things would be _OK_ , they'd be back to normal. They'd play the game, and they'd try to one up each other just like they always did.

But he couldn't find him anywhere. Glanni had all but _vanished,_ Íþróttaálfurinn hadn't been able to see him despite running to the edge of the basket just seconds after him. There was no falling figure for him to rush to save, he was just gone. There was just the trees and the fields and the mountains. Nothing else. And that was _wrong_ in a way his mind wouldn't allow him to focus on; like something that slipped out of your grasp every time you tried to hold onto it. Like a fish in a stream.

He shook his head, getting back to the task at hand. Find Glanni. He was responsible for this, he had to put it right. He wouldn't be able to forgive himself if something had happened to him. He circled the area in his balloon again and again, but still he couldn't see Glanni anywhere. He searched for hours and hours, until the pastures below him blurred into a green haze, and the winter sun had started to slip from the sky. His crystal stayed ominously silent.

Eventually, he landed the balloon in an empty field and began going from farmhouse to farmhouse on foot. He asked at every door if anyone had seen a man matching Glanni's description, if perhaps they had taken him in, if he was hurt- but no one had seen him. He even snuck into several barns, just to make sure he wasn't hiding in any of them, but found nothing but farm equipment stored away for winter, and the occasional bemused cow.

The sun was setting by the time he reached the last farm in the area and he was starting to get tired, the emotional drain exacerbating the physical one. Even he couldn't spend that much time running about without it taking it's toll. He couldn't stop though, not yet. He had to find him. He jogged up to the small stone cottage, where a wizened old man smoking a pipe sat outside. His boots were caked with mud and there was a dog asleep by his feet. He nodded amiably at Íþróttaálfurinn as he approached.

“Hello, I was wondering, has a man come through here? Tall, black hair- uh, catsuit? Possibly in handcuffs?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, almost afraid to be hopeful.

The man shook his head. “Can't say that I have young sir, no.”

“I- he's lost-”

_-possibly dead-_

_-no no he is_ not _-_

“-he might be hurt, and it's getting dark, I need to find him.”

The man nodded knowingly, reaching down to pat the dog.

“Nature is a harsh beast when she likes,” he said, pausing to blow smoke up into the darkening sky, embers glowing in the gathering gloom. “But do not worry yourself unduly, my young friend. Flowers on the Mountain will look after him, if he is a good soul.”

He resisted the urge to snap at the man, that flowers would be of no use in preventing Glanni from dying of exposure, even if he'd survived the fall. Which he _had_ ; Íþróttaálfurinn would not allow himself to think otherwise. Besides which, it was winter. There were no flowers on the mountain. Instead, he thanked him, and trudged back to the balloon, thinking desperately of ways to broaden his search. He had to be _somewhere_ , people didn't just- disappear the way he had. It could have been magic- but no, he would have noticed something if it was, surely. The mountains and forests around here didn't have enough magic for things like that. It would have required _intent_ , and there were no other huldufólk that near except for Íþróttaálfurinn himself. If he didn't find Glanni before nightfall he would have to wait until tomorrow, and the thought of this dragging on another day made his stomach turn. He wasn't sure he could handle that. He was so used to being able to just do things, to save people almost immediately, and every second he left Glanni un-found felt like a betrayal- of himself and the other man.

He reached the field where he'd left his balloon, vaulting the fence- and stopped, seeing a familiar figure standing next to it. His heart leapt, recognising the lilting stance even in the dim light.

“Glanni!” He rushed towards him, heedless of the game, of anything but making sure he was alright.

He seemed to be in one piece, and as he got closer he could see Glanni was watching him coolly, leaning against the basket, sans handcuffs.

“Are you alright?”

Íþróttaálfurinn reached to take his arms, to get a better look at him, and he had to remind himself not to be hurt when Glanni stepped back away from him. Of course. This wasn't part of the game. They had roles to fill here, and friendship was not one of them.

He cleared his throat.

“I'm sorry Glanni, that-that's never happened before. Are you OK? We should take you to a hospital once we get back.”

 _Why did Glanni come back?_ a little voice asked. _True, you can give him a lift, but the country roads around here see plenty of trucks go by, and he could have had his pick of barns to hide in over night. Why is he here, waiting for you,when he could have been long gone by now?_

Something cold seeped into his stomach at the thought, the seed of an incomplete thought nestled deep inside, something was off that he couldn't quiet name...

He shook the thought off, climbing into the balloon and helping Glanni up after him. It didn't matter, Glanni was here, and he was in one piece, that was good enough.

\---

Glanni stared sullenly into space. He hadn't spoken a word since he'd found him, he'd just cocooned himself in every blanket he could find in the airship- including the tarp Íþróttaálfurinn kept for when it rained- and had just... _sat_ there. Frowning at nothing.

“Glanni? What happened?” he asked at last, when his worry and need for action had overpowered his intentions to give Glanni space.

Glanni continued to frown, looking pale and small in a way Íþróttaálfurinn had never seen before. His cheeks were no longer pink.

“...I don't remember” he said at last, more to himself than his companion.

“Did you hit your head? You should definitely go to a hospital” he reached for Glanni, but he shied away, huddling further into the blankets he'd commandeered for himself.

“I hate hospitals.”

Íþróttaálfurinn rolled his eyes, starting to get annoyed despite himself.

“No one likes hospitals Glanni.”

“I said _hate_ , not dislike.”

“Tough, you're going. You're not dying on my watch,” he snapped, losing his patience.

_I want you alive, and in one piece, and where I can see you. I'm getting sick of spending time in hospitals with you._

Glanni made a high pitched keening sound, curling in on himself and burying his face in his knees.

“I just want to _sleep_.”

\---

Glanni did sleep- he was out like a light by the time they reached the small hospital in LazyTown, and Íþróttaálfurinn had to carry him inside. The elf found himself sitting in a too bright waiting room with Glanni drooling on his shoulder; it was not how he had expected to end the day. He jiggled his leg nervously, it being the only bit of movement he could afford without waking his companion. He was _itching_ to do some handstands.

Thankfully Glanni had woken up by the time it was their turn to be seen, and he sat blearily while he was examined, giving short non-committal replies to the doctor's questions, while Íþróttaálfurinn hovered nervously beside him. He began to drop off to sleep again after a few minutes, so Íþróttaálfurinn carefully nudged him to lie down on the hospital bed.

The doctor motioned him out into the corridor.

“Well, he's exhausted and cold, but other than that- I don't know what to tell you- he seems fine. You say he fell out of a hot air balloon?” she said, looking at Íþróttaálfurinn sceptically.

He nodded. “So he's not- concussed or anything?” _Why didn't he remember? Was he lying?_ You never could tell with Glanni, who could play people better than a piano. He'd tricked Íþróttaálfurinn lots of times before.

“No, no head injuries, nothing. He just needs some sleep. I'm afraid he can't stay here though, we need the beds,” the doctor said, bringing him out of his musings.

It was only then that Íþróttaálfurinn realised; they had left Glanni alone. He dashed back into the room, leaving the confused doctor in the hallway. The window was open, sterile blinds flapping stiffly in the winter air. It had begun to snow. Of course he'd been faking sleep. Of course he'd just been waiting to make his escape. Íþróttaálfurinn tried not to be disappointed. This was what he had expected, after all. Glanni's bed was as empty as Íþróttaálfurinn felt.

\---

_It had been so cold, and there was so much blood. It was always about the blood._

_Blood was all they understood; so blood was what they would have._

\---

Glanni huddled further into his newly stolen coat, shivering. He hated resorting to simple thievery to get by; his skills were too good for such things, but needs must and as his last con had been so _rudely interrupted_ he was not currently in possession of any actual money. And he was just _so cold_. It felt like he'd been cold for weeks, and no matter how many stolen layers he added to himself he just couldn't seem to get warm.

He could probably pull off a simple con, just enough to put some money in his pockets for the next couple of weeks, but his mind was curiously empty of schemes. He felt...listless, almost. Untethered. Perhaps it was the weather. It made him of think of...when he'd fallen. Which had been terrifying, for about 3 seconds, and then afterwards he just... couldn't quite remember what had happened. It was the shock, he supposed. He remembered waking up at the foot of one of the mountains, with no idea how long he'd been there, and then spotting Íþróttaálfurinn's balloon a few fields away. He hadn't thought twice about going over to it, and it hadn't even occurred to him that he could have made a getaway until much later.

 _You trust him that's why._ He shoved the thought away. Trust was for fools, and Glanni was not a fool.

But before that all he could remember was...

_Blood._

There was blood on the snow. He jerked his head up to get a better look, having only caught it from the corner of his eye- but there was nothing there. Just snow. It must have been a trick of the light; just a shadow cast by the lamppost. There was nothing on the snow, and no one in the street.

He stopped suddenly.

The street was empty. He was alone. The snow seemed to- to _press_ in on him, suddenly, a quiet blanket that absorbed the sound around him, deafening him with its silence. He felt suddenly, that he might be the only person left in the whole world. He shook his head with a start, and the feeling passed, leaving an anxious buzz in his chest. He'd find an empty house, he decided. He knew which families went away on holiday during the winter- he'd sneak in and use one of their beds for the night. He shuddered. Anything to get him out of this cold.

He let himself into his chosen house through an upstairs window, after managing to scramble up onto the garage roof and force his way in. He helped himself to a scalding shower and whatever he could find in the cupboards, which happened to be an unopened packet of chocolate chip cookies and an unopened tub of ready made butter-cream icing. He ate both in their entirety, smirking to himself when he thought about what Íþróttaálfurinn would say. He would be _livid_. He turned the heating up full blast, picked the biggest and most comfortable bed in the house, and curled up, hoping for once, to get a good nights sleep.

But he was still _so cold_.

\----

He dreamt of blood on snow and of flowers on the mountain, and running, running, running.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Call out post for Warren: did in fact eat an entire tub of buttercream icing in one sitting once.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you to everyone who has been following this fic! It honestly makes writing it so much more rewarding knowing people are enjoying it, and I'm really excited to get the plot going! I'm already planning sequels :')
> 
> So, originally I wasn't going to post another flashback chapter just yet, but there ended up being things in this chapter that worked better here than they would have later. There were also only supposed to be two flashback chapters, but then the second chapter turned out to be 45000 long. Which is a lot of flashbacks. And I hadn't even finished adding in everything I had intended to because this fic has grown quite a bit since I initially came up with it, and even more since I started writing it.
> 
> So, I have decided to split the flashbacks up a little bit, and I will do my best to keep all my ideas in check so it makes for a coherent read! I'm also hopefully going to make the chapters a bit longer, so updates might take a little longer but things should be a bit more in depth.
> 
> (I'm also going to use the Icelandic names for the kids, just to keep things consistent.)

Glanni groaned. He felt awful. Had he been drinking? No, that wasn't it, it was something else.

“Glanni?”

Oh yes. Knife. Pointy. Keep away from fleshy bits.

“Shh, I'm sleeping,” he grumbled.

Íþróttaálfurinn huffed a soft laugh, and Glanni counted it as a win.

He grudgingly opened his eyes and blinked at the fluorescents lights and awful off-white ceiling above him. A cup with a little straw sticking out of it moved into his view and Glanni squinted at it suspiciously.

“Is that alcohol?” he asked hopefully.

“No! It's water.”

“Ugh. Pity.” He took a drink anyway, if only because it couldn't make his mouth feel any worse than it already did.

God, he felt like shit. Getting stabbed was not pleasant.

“You had to have stitches and you lost a fair amount of blood, but that was the worst of it,” Íþróttaálfurinn said after a while, concern colouring his voice.

“Good thing they didn't puncture anything major,” Glanni said, closing his eyes and smirking.

Íþróttaálfurinn said nothing, and Glanni felt himself begin to drift off again. Being stabbed was _tiring_. He felt like he could sleep for a week.

“What happened Glanni?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked quietly.

Oh great, now they were going to have a _Conversation_.

“Remember those loan sharks?” Glanni replied, opening one eye to look at the other man. He hoped that would be enough to end this conversation. It's not like Íþróttaálfurinn needed anything more than that. Loan sharks, stabby stabby, hosptial- the end, right?

Íþróttaálfurinn winced. “I can't believe you owed those people money.”

Glanni rolled his eyes. Not the end apparently.

“ _I_ didn't owe them money, but Rikki did, and your brats blew my cover, so to speak. Word got around pretty quick we were the same person.”

Íþróttaálfurinn heaved a sigh, rubbing a hand tiredly over his face. Glanni looked at him hard. How long had he _been_ here?

“I can't believe I'm saying this, but why didn't you just steal some money? Surely that was a better option?” he asked, imploringly. If Glanni didn't know any better, he'd say Íþróttaálfurinn was worried.

“There wasn't enough time to plan a job that would have been profitable enough to pay for all the stuff I needed, and I had to move fast if I was going to pull off the con. I had just escaped from prison after all,” he said pointedly, hoping to get Íþróttaálfurinn to drop the subject. It was absolutely none of his business.

Íþróttaálfurinn fell quiet after that and Glanni shut his eyes again, figuring that was the end of it, that his curiosity was satisfied. He couldn't wait to get out of here. He had things to do and things to steal, after all.

“I'm changing the rules,” Íþróttaálfurinn said suddenly, jolting Glanni out of his doze a second time.

“What?” he asked, trying to backtrack their conversation. He'd missed something. What had he missed? He hated being one step behind; usually he was at least 3 steps ahead of everyone else with a getaway car stashed around the next corner.

“This,” Íþróttaálfurinn said tersely and gesturing vaguely with his hand, “whatever it is we're doing, this game, I'm changing the rules.”

“I wasn't aware there were any rules to begin with” Glanni eyed him distrustfully. Rules did not agree with him, and already he could feel his hackles rise, defences slamming back up. There was not a rule on this planet that Glanni was not prepared not break just for the sake of it. Or out of spite. Which ever was best for the situation.

“Well then I'm laying some down now.” said Íþróttaálfurinn firmly, leaning forward into Glanni's space. Glanni moved back as best he could, which didn't really make much of a difference. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. He was trapped, having an actual serious conversation with this energetic do-gooder. Ugh. This was even worse than being stabbed.

“First, I don't mind you being in LazyTown as long as you don't cause trouble, which means you don't hurt the kids, _or_ the gardens,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, pointing at him.

“You know, I have just woken up after being stabbed by loan sharks? Is now really the time for this conversation?” Glanni did not want to be having this conversation ever, but having it while he was trapped in a hospital bed was definitely adding to his hatred of the entire scenario.

“Second,” Íþróttaálfurinn continued sternly “If you're in trouble, _really_ in trouble, you come to me.”

“ _Why_?” Glanni was too tired to even try and keep up with this bizarre conversation. Clearly he'd woken up in some sort of alternate reality, it was the only way to explain any of this.

Íþróttaálfurinn's expression turned stormy.

“Because I did not enjoy washing your blood off my hands, and it's not an experience I ever want to repeat,” he said sharply, arms crossed tight across his chest.

Hmm. That was fair enough, he supposed. Blood was a pain to wash off things, and it was more than likely he'd bled all over Íþróttaálfurinn's basket. And he had that thing about saving people, so he'd probably not do the sensible thing and just leave Glanni to his own devices if, god forbid, they had a repeat of this situation.

There had to be a catch though, there always was. He just had to figure out what it was.

“I'll think about it” he said at last, noting how relived Íþróttaálfurinn looked. Odd. What was he up to?

“How did I even get to LazyTown?” Glanni asked suddenly, realising there seemed to be a gap in his hazy blood soaked memories.

“Don't you remember?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, tilting his head owlishly and frowning.

“No...I was in MayhemTown and then...”

_And then I thought of you._

\---

He wanted to give Glanni a chance; he couldn't do that if he was dead. That was why he was proposing this. That was what he told himself, anyway. He wasn't quite sure he believed it, but he couldn't bring himself to examine what other reasons he might have.

\---

Something hard hit him in the head, jerking him awake.

“Ow! What the fu-”

There was a child in his hospital room. The red one. What was her name. Ha....ugh whatever.

“What are you doing in here you little devil?” he hissed, rubbing his head.

She scowled at him, lifting her slingshot, and firing another hard boiled sweet at him.

“Ow!”

“That was for putting me in jail.”

She fired another.

“For putting Solla in jail, for putting us both in the sewers, for poisoning everyone, for-”

“OK, OK I get it!!”

What the hell was wrong with this kid?! Did she want him to pop his stitches?!

She looked at him shrewdly for a moment, before nodding, apparently satisfied. She hopped up onto the chair next to his bed, face serious. Oh god, he was trapped in in here with a child. That was almost worse than when he was trapped here with Íþróttaálfurinn.

“Íþróttaálfurinn said you weren't well. Are you going to die?”

“No!”

She nodded solemnly.

“That's good. You're awful, but I wouldn't really want you to be dead. And I think it would make Íþróttaálfurinn sad. He likes you.”

“He does not!”Glanni gasped, horrified at the mere thought.

“He does so!” said Halla (Halla! That was it!) vehemently. “He was in here _all_ day yesterday, he didn't even come out to exercise with us, and he looked super worried when he told us where he'd been!”

Glanni hadn't realised Íþróttaálfurinn had been with him all that time. The thought made him...uncomfortable. Halla continued, completely unaware of his discomfort.

“And he said that he'd been talking to you, like grown ups do, and that might mean we'd see you around sometimes.”

“That doesn't explain why you're in here assaulting me with candy.”

“I wanted to tell you that I think you're awful-”

“Thanks,” he said drily.

“But” she said considering, unsure “Íþróttaálfurinn seems to really like you” Glanni pulled a face “so I might be able to like you to,” she said with finality, nodding to herself. She set a little paper bag down on Glanni's bed, before sliding from the chair and crossing the room. She paused halfway through the the door, turning to look at him.

“I'm sorry you're in hospital. I hope you don't die.”

Glanni stared after her a moment, unsure what to make of the whole encounter. He just did not understand children. If it had been him he would have never forgiven someone who had wronged him that way. Glanni picked up the bag. Inside it were the same sweets Halla had been firing at him. They were sarsaparilla tablets. Well, at least she had good taste.

\---

Glanni thought a lot about what Halla had said. Maybe Íþróttaálfurinn didn't have any...ulterior motives. He supposed it would fit right in with that hero complex he had going for him. Besides which what possible motive could he _have_? Two rules weren't really all that much to go on, and it was only the second one that was giving him trouble. Why would he want to actively encourage Glanni to ask for his help?

In the end, he just came right out and asked.

“Just two rules?” he asked, letting the doubt show in his voice. “That's it? No trying to make me give up a life of crime, no...trying to change my ways?” He couldn't really think of anything else the other man might be up to. Blackmail didn't really seem like his style, and it was the only reason Glanni could think of that he might want to gain his trust. Good thing Glanni didn't trust anyone.

“No,” Íþróttaálfurinn shook his head. “Nothing like that, I just- I want you to know that I'll help you. If you need it,” he said, shifting awkwardly in his seat.

Glanni considered. Pros- Access to LazyTown, which come to think of it, would be a good place for him to lie low for a while. People tended not to cause trouble there because it was so small. And because of Íþróttaálfurinn. Mostly because of Íþróttaálfurinn.

Cons- there was no way in hell he was agreeing to ask Íþróttaálfurinn for help. With anything. Ever. Íþróttaálfurinn didn't have to know that though, did he?

“Deal,” Glanni lied.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ithro: i am willing to help you out of the goodness of my own heart  
> glanni: that sounds fake, but ok


	5. Chapter 5

Glanni did not feel at all rested the next day. In fact, he felt worse, the anxious buzz inside him had risen to a crescendo, leaving him even more jumpy than he usually was. And he was _still_ cold.

He did not remember his dream.

He heaved himself out of bed, dragging the duvet with him and went to raid the kitchen cupboards once again. He stood idly at the kitchen window wearing a stolen bathrobe, (he'd left the duvet in a heap at the bottom of the stairs when it kept getting caught on things) looking at the gently falling snow. He was not going out there, he decided, shoving another cookie in his mouth (there'd been another packet hidden in a drawer). He was cold enough as it was. And there was a whole house here at his leisure, he could keep himself entertained in here for a day or so. He needed to regroup, so to speak. He could plan his next con, or at least figure out what he was going to say when he saw Íþróttaálfurinn again. He felt strangely embarrassed about running off, even though it was usual behaviour for him.

He set about exploring the house. He peeked his head into what he assumed was the lounge. It was full of overstuffed leather arms chairs and expensive looking coffee tables. Glanni made a mental note to put make multiple cups of tea and put them down on all of the tables without a coaster. He turned to look at the opposite wall. A stuffed deer head stared at him with blank glass eyes. He shuddered. Perhaps not. He shut the door behind him and moved onto the next room. It was a study, the kind made to look important but which probably didn't see much use. Like the lounge it was full of expensive furniture made of shiny varnished wood and overpriced leather, and along one wall was a neatly organised bookcase full of volumes that had probably never been read.

Now, wasn't that just a _crime_. He still felt...odd, tense, sort of, and books were as good a distraction as any. He spent the day pulling books off the shelves at random, and putting them back in the wrong places, or some times not even putting them back at all.

He found a few books on folklore but quickly grew bored of them, dumping them in a heap on the floor. Fairytales were for children, and even then, only for the very stupid ones. What was the point in reading about something that wasn't real? Elves, fairies, that sort of thing? What a waste of time!

\---

He didn't see Glanni the next day. Which was- which was fine, really. Sometimes they went weeks without seeing each other. Granted, it had been a while since they'd done that but- still. He wasn't too worried. Really. Just a little bit. His vanishing act in the hospital had just put him on edge, that was all.

He'd come out of hiding sooner or later, he always did. Íþróttaálfurinn had learned over the last year or so that if Glanni really didn't want to be found it was damn near impossible to ferret him out, so he just had to be patient. Íþróttaálfurinn wasn't very good at being patient. He shouldn't worry though. Even though he was.

Besides, he told himself, he'd found that Glanni was a lot more resilient than he looked. You could dump Íþróttaálfurinn in the woods all winter and he'd survive because he knew how; do it to Glanni and he'd survive out of sheer spite, stubbornness, and because he had somehow talked the forest into letting him live. He was beyond resourceful- it was one of his best qualities.

So, he did exercises with the kids, played with them as usual, apologised to Officer Obtuse for losing his handcuffs, and saved people when they needed it, but he didn't see hide nor black hair of his elusive 'nemesis' all day. He hoped he'd show himself soon. Things were never quite as interesting without him around. He wasn't afraid to admit that he missed Glanni. They'd been chasing each other about for over a year now; they had a pattern, it was natural to feel off if it was interrupted. Even if it had only been a day.

“Hey Íþróttaálfurinn?”

“Yes Solla?”

Íþróttaálfurinn handed her an apple, dishing out the rest to the other kids, who were currently catching their breath. They had just finished having a rather energetic snowball fight, which of course Halla's team had been the victors of.

“Are you getting Glanni anything for Valentine's Day?” Solla asked.

Íþróttaálfurinn choked on the bite of apple he'd just taken. What? What?!

“Solla- what- I no, why” he coughed, eyes watering. “Why do you think I would be giving Glanni a Valentine's Day gift?”

Elves didn't really celebrate Valentine's Day, but Solla didn't know that. Or that he was an elf, for that matter.

She frowned, tilting her head in confusion.

“Don't you like him? Besides, I _saw_ you kiss him at Christmas” she said, as accusingly as a ten year old could manage, which turned out to be quite a lot.

Oh god, she'd _seen_ that. Íþróttaálfurinn felt his face heat up. There had been alcohol involved. And mistletoe.

“Well-that was- it was just tradition, you know, mistletoe?” he said lamely.

“You're always chasing him around, so I thought you liked him, and I'm giving Halla a card!” she said, as if to make him feel better. “So you won't be the only one giving something! We can even give them together if you wanted!”

“Ah- that's- sweet of you Solla but- I don't feel that way about him.” _Do I?_

Her face fell, just a little bit.

“Oh.” She shrugged. “Well, even if you don't I'm glad you have a friend! A grown up friend I mean!”

He didn't have the heart to tell her they weren't really friends, per se. Well, he was sure Glanni didn't consider him a friend anyway. He didn't know what he considered him, actually, but Íþróttaálfurinn always hoped he'd open up to him a little if he gave him time. He was sure something would give eventually, though. It always did.

\---

He dreamt of running, running, running.

\---

This wasn't working, Glanni decided next morning. Not even pillaging the very expensive dressing table for very expensive make up had improved his mood. He sighed, contemplating his reflection. At least he looked nice. He felt worse instead of better. He needed a change of scenery. Besides, the neighbours would get suspicious if he stayed in here too long; they were bound to notice someone was home when they shouldn't be sooner or later.

He raked through the houses many wardrobes for some suitably expensive clothes he could wear (just because he was having a bad day didn't mean he couldn't be _fashionable_ ) and climbed out of the window once again.

Glanni squinted. The snow had not dissipated, and the cloudy sky did nothing to dispel it's blinding whiteness. God, he hated snow. He shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of the coat he'd found. It probably cost more than some of the cars he was walking past.

_OK, here we go, new plan, new plan._

MayhemTown was...probably not his best option right now. He hadn't actually been back there in over a year, and while he was relatively sure things would have cooled off a little he didn't want to risk it. PrideTown wasn't much better, so soon after his last con. LiarTown on the other hand...and people were pretty gullible there, in a convoluted sort of way. They were so suspicious about everything you could outright tell them you were planning to scam them and they wouldn't believe you. It made them very susceptible to manipulation, which was always a bonus when dealing with potential targets. Perhaps he could-

He heard footsteps behind him, crunching on the snow. His skin prickled, breath catching in his throat. His chest squeezed tight. Blood pounded in his ears and hummed in his veins.

_They're coming._

He ran. He ran, without thinking, and did not stop even when a familiar voice called his name. He barely heard it.

_He had to run, they were going to catch him, they were coming, closer and closer-_

_-he heard a humming sound, cutting sharply through the air-_

_-a phantom pain in his side-_

-he stumbled, feet slipping out from under him, and he fell hard on the icy ground.

“Glanni!”

He wheezed, trying to get air back into his flattened lungs.

“Glanni? Are you alright?”

This was it, this was how he died- someone slapped his cheek.

“Ow!”

“Oh sorry! Up you get!”

Strong arms heaved him to his feet, and they were so warm, he wanted to lean into them. No, he told himself harshly. Bad idea. He pushed himself roughly away, slapping at Íþróttaálfurinn's fussing hands.

“What do you want?!” he shrieked, perhaps a tad hysterically. He was...relieved that it was Íþróttaálfurinn. What an awful feeling. It was _beyond_ awful, he was a criminal, a villain, he wasn't _supposed_ to be relieved to see the hero.

“Well, to make sure you're not dead for one thing,” Íþróttaálfurinn said heatedly.

“Well” he spread his arms “I'm not, so if that's all-”

“No, Glanni- just” Íþróttaálfurinn grabbed him, before letting go, holding up his hands in surrender. He took a deep breath. “You fell god knows how many feet out of the sky and then just disappeared from hospital without- I just wanted to make sure you were OK.”

Glanni eyed him suspiciously for any signs of insincerity. He found none. He felt quiet unable to speak for a long moment, during which he fought down the confusing bubble of emotions growing inside of him. It wasn't the first time Íþróttaálfurinn had been... _nice_ to him, but every time it happened it threw Glanni for a loop. Kindness was a foreign language to him. He only spoke enough to get what he wanted out of people and couldn't hold a full conversation if his life depended on it.

“I-I'm fine.” he managed at last. Was that what he was supposed to say? Why was he suddenly worrying about saying the right thing? It shouldn't _matter_ to him what he said to Íþróttaálfurinn.

“Are you sure?” Íþróttaálfurinn squinted at him.”You look terrible.”

“Thanks,” he said drily, glaring at Íþróttaálfurinn. He looked _fantastic_ , he was sure. He _always_ looked good.

“I mean you look tired. You know, you should really go to bed at a reasonable hour.”

Glanni scowled angrily at him, scathing comment at the ready, when Íþróttaálfurinn's crystal began to flash and beep.

“Oh! Someone's in trouble! Stay here, I'll be right back!” he said winking, before bounding off, his hat bobbling merrily with his movements.

Glanni's cheeks burned. It was the warmest he'd felt all day.

\---

Íþróttaálfurinn felt like he could do a hundred backflips. His heart felt a lot lighter after his encounter with Glanni. It had been nice to see him again; he had missed him. He always did, he realised. He'd got so used to having him around.

After helping the postman unstick his hand from the frozen metal of the post box he ran a victory lap or two around the town square. It was a good day, he felt. The air was crisp and cold and the sky was as white as the ground. Glanni would probably be long gone when he got back to where he'd left him, but that was OK. The game would start again and things would be back to normal. He passed by the butcher's on his way back. There was a van outside- he was getting a new shipment in from one of the farms, it looked like. He waved at him on the way past, still beaming. He didn't think anything could spoil his good mood.

\---

Seeing Íþróttaálfurinn had made him feel.. _better_. So much better. The anxious hum inside him had settled and he felt like he could breath for the first time in two days. It was probably a fluke. It had to be. There was no way Glanni would let Íþróttaálfurinn affect him that way. They were just- they had an _agreement_ , that was all. They had the game and that was it. Nothing else. He wasn't supposed to- to-

Glanni jumped as Íþróttaálfurinn thumped down into the snow beside him.

“Oh! You waited” Íþróttaálfurinn said smiling, warm and open and brighter than the sun.

Looking at him made Glanni's chest ache.

This was getting weird. He had to put things back. The teasing and flirting he could handle, but Íþróttaálfurinn smiling, _really_ smiling at him? No. _No_. How long had this been going on? When had he let him so _close_?

“So what, are we picking up where we left off?” he asked, aiming for casual and failing miserably. He'd gladly spend a couple of days in a cell if that was what it took to get things back on track. If it would put distance between him and this infuriating and wonderful man in front of him.

“Hmm” Íþróttaálfurinn tilted his head in mock consideration. “I'll let you off just this once Glæpur,”

he said, winking at him.

He what now? What? He'd _never_ let him off before. He always dropped him off at the police station and then Glanni would escape or charm his way out of the charges and then they would start it all over again. Rinse and repeat.

This was...a change, in the game, in- in their relationship. This was not how things were supposed to go, Íþróttaálfurinn wasn't supposed to let him get away with things, he- he was supposed to chase him, what was Glanni supposed to do if he wasn't chasing him?

“Are you sure you're alright? You seem...off. There's nothing wrong is there?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, and the concern in his eyes made Glanni's skin crawl.

“You can tell me, if there is,” he went on, laying a gentle, too gentle, hand on Glanni's arm. He felt warm, even through the coat.

Glanni was starting to panic. So, he did what he always did when he panicked; he lied.

“Really?” he asked shrugging Íþróttaálfurinn's hand away, voice hard, and tilting his head to look down on Íþróttaálfurinn coldly. “You're just going to let me, a wanted criminal go free? Who knows what I might get up to?”

Íþróttaálfurinn's smile faltered. _Good._ Whatever happy little sunshine and daisies routine Íþróttaálfurinn was trying to pull here he wasn't going to play along.

“I could go anywhere, cause all sorts of trouble, even here in LazyTown,” he continued, gauging the hero's reaction. Íþróttaálfurinn had started to frown, looking...if not worried then..unsure. Good, Glanni thought spitefully. He would not let him have the upper hand here. Even if there was no upper hand to have.

“I- you wouldn't,” he said at last, shaking his head. “Besides, we have an agreement.”

Like that meant anything, it was just words. That was all. And words were so easy to manipulate.

“Who says I'm playing anymore?” Glanni said, hammering the final nail in _that_ coffin.

Íþróttaálfurinn was staring at him, and Glanni could see the suspicion there, the uncertainty just waiting to bring this whole illusion of...whatever Íþróttaálfurinn thought they were, crashing down.

_Ha. Exactly! You don't trust me, and you shouldn't. All those lectures about helping me don't mean much now do they? Don't think that much of me after all do you?_

It was an empty threat; but Íþróttaálfurinn didn't know that. Glanni tried not to feel guilty at the the hurt that flashed in Íþróttaálfurinn's eyes. He didn't do guilt. People that felt guilt were the type of people that Glanni conned out of their money. And he was just setting things right. He couldn't let Íþróttaálfurinn think he was- think that they were _friends_. Glanni didn't have _friends_ ,

They stared at each other for a long moment. Íþróttaálfurinn's crystal began to flash again, but neither of them moved.

“I have to- to go...” Íþróttaálfurinn said slowly, still staring at him, before running off again, his movements decidedly lacklustre this time. His hat still bobbled about merrily, oblivious to the tension in the air.

Glanni didn't really feel all that much better. But it was for the best. It was.

\---

His crystal took him back to the butcher's shop, of all places. He got there just in time to stop the butcher from taking a swing at the deliveryman he'd seen outside earlier.

“Hey, hey!” he said, standing between them before things could get out of hand. “What's wrong?”

The butcher was an amiable man, if a bit brusque, and Íþróttaálfurinn couldn't imagine what would have caused him to come to blows with someone else in such a short amount of time.

“This bastard is trying to sell me spoiled meat is what!” he snarled, pointing accusingly at the deliveryman.

“I told you, it was fine this morning when I left the farm, I don't know what happened!”

“Look,” Íþróttaálfurinn said “I'm sure it's just- a misunderstanding. Maybe there was a mix up with the order?”

He didn't like problems that he had to solve with talking. He wasn't nearly as good as diplomacy at he was at backflips.

“In any case, you can't expect him to buy this if there's something wrong with it, can you?” he asked, looking expectantly between the two men.

The deliveryman sighed, taking off his cap to run a hand through his greying hair.

“Right. I suppose not,” he said, sounding defeated.

Íþróttaálfurinn nodded, relieved. “Alright then. I'm sure you two can sort this out. Peacefully?”

They nodded, and Íþróttaálfurinn hurried off back to where he'd left Glanni. Of course when he came back, Glanni was gone. He sighed. He hoped he was OK. There had definitely been something about him that seemed...different. He'd wait for him to show himself again, he decided. It was usually best, if Glanni was in a bad mood. He'd be back to normal eventually, and Íþróttaálfurinn would catch wind of whatever scheme he was trying to pull and he'd chase him all over town trying to catch him.

He knew Glanni would never carry out...whatever it was he'd been threatening. They had an agreement. They had the game. He wouldn't. He _wouldn't_

\---

_They were all alike, these creatures of blood._

_Flesh and bone. Blood on the snow._

_They did not deserve happiness when they could be so cruel._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> glanni:magic aint real  
> ithro:looks directly into the camera like he's on the office
> 
> also 
> 
> glanni: i've got a pretty good thing going here...time to ruin it


	6. Chapter 6

Íþróttaálfurinn lay awake in the basket for a long time that night. Something was wrong with Glanni, he knew it. He just didn't know what, and that _bothered_ him. But then again, it was hardly unexpected. He knew so little about Glanni, despite the past year or so they had known each other. But then again Glanni knew so little about him too. He hadn't even told him he was an elf. He pulled his blanket tighter, drifting into an uneasy sleep.

\---

He shouldn't go back to the house. People would start to get suspicious. And maybe, just maybe, he felt bad for what he'd said to Íþróttaálfurinn earlier. He didn't regret it, as such, he just...felt bad.

_You know, Íþróttaálfurinn is just a minute away. You could go see him. I bet he'd even let you sleep in the basket with him._

Shut up, he would not go back to him, he would not. If Íþróttaálfurinn wanted to see him he could damn well come and catch him. Business as usual.

...

He couldn't _believe_ he was doing this. He slunk through the empty streets, sticking to the shadows as best he could and hoping that no one saw him. It would be embarrassing to admit to Íþróttaálfurinn that just _maybe_ , he hadn't meant what he'd said, and that just maybe, he needed somewhere to sleep tonight. He didn't want anyone else to know about it too.

He passed by the scruffy plot of land behind the town square that housed Halla's trailer. There was a rusty pile of gardening tools next to the rundown fence, and he grabbed a spade on his way past for good measure. Even though LazyTown was by far the safest town Glanni had ever been to, he couldn't shake the feeling that there was _something_ out there that meant him harm. The spade made him feel a little better, but not by much.

“Glanni?”

He jumped, squeaking and almost dropping the spade. Halla snickered, standing there sleepily at the door of her trailer in her pyjamas. _Shit_ , he'd been caught.

“What are you doing?” she yawned. She looked down at the spade in his hands. “What's that for?”

“Nothing! None of your business!”

She frowned at him. Shit, how he'd made her more curious.

“You did not see me here got it?” he growled, perhaps...slightly more aggressively than he'd intended.

Halla's face fell, and she looked at him with wide eyes. “I-”

“Got it?” he hissed. Íþróttaálfurinn could _not_ know about this.

“Ok...” she said quietly, looking at her feet.

“ _Good_.” He turned, storming back the way he'd came. What was he doing? This was _ridiculous_. He wouldn't give in to him like this. Never.

 He scrambled back in through the window, feeling angry and miserable and altogether sorry for himself, not caring what the neighbours thought. They could call the police for all he cared, at least then he'd know what to do. At least that was familiar. He curled up in the messy nest of blankets he'd made on the bed, and squeezed his eyes shut, willing sleep to come. He felt colder than ever.

\---

_He dreamt of blood and snow, and of flowers on the mountain, and running, running, running._

\---

When Íþróttaálfurinn awoke the next morning, he was surprised to see Halla and Solla already up and about- they still had another hour before their morning routine was due.

They were standing together in the middle of the town square, heads together in hushed conversation. He flipped over to them, grinning.

“Good morning! What's wrong?” he added, noticing their stricken faces. 

“Íþróttaálfurinn! Look!” Solla said, pointing.

He looked across at the gardens- and saw red. 

“What happened?” he asked sharply.

Halla shuffled awkwardly, looking uncomfortable. She tugged nervously at the ends of her scarf, not meeting his eyes.

Solla nudged her. “Go on, tell him.”

“Halla?” he asked, expectantly.

“I-I saw Glanni outside last night. Coming back from here. With a spade.”

\---

Glanni felt like he'd dreamt something important but he couldn't remember what it was. It was a particularly troublesome feeling, especially given the foul mood he'd been in the last few days. He stood in the shower for a long time, staring at the water spiralling down the drain and trying to remember. All he could think of were flowers. He didn't even _like_ flowers.

As he climbed back out of the window he noted gleefully that he'd left muddy scuffs on the windowsill and bedroom carpets. He snickered. It was the little things that made life worth living. He felt...maybe a little bad, for snapping at Halla, last night. Just a little. Kids were easy though, all he'd have to do was steal something nice for her and she'd get over it, he was sure. Maybe a new slingshot.

Glanni heard footsteps behind him again and stiffened. _Relax, you know who it is. You always know who it is._

He was relieved that Íþróttaálfurinn had decided to come and find him. If Glanni had come back first it felt...too much like he was submitting to Íþróttaálfurinn somehow. Like he was giving in. Though giving in to what, he wasn't sure. He huffed, fighting down a smile as he turned towards the hero.

“Oh, what do you want now-”

He found himself shoved roughly into the wall, looking down at a very angry Íþróttaálfurinn.

“ _What did you do_?” he hissed, teeth clenched.

Nothing, for once Glanni thought, but Íþróttaálfurinn looked furious and that- that _scared_ him, so he did what he always did when things weren't going his way; he bluffed.

“Well I don't know do I? I've done a lot of things” he said airily, miming buffing his finger nails on his coat, pretending to examine them. They were still tinged slightly blue from the dye he'd used last week, and were dirtier than he remembered them being. All the while he felt Íþróttaálfurinn's knuckles pressing into his throat, and tried not to swallow.

“Don't play coy with me” the hero seethed, face close.

 _An opening,_ Glanni thought relieved _, time to get the game back on track._

“Oh, when I'm playing coy, you'll know” he said smirking, leaning in minutely. And Íþróttaálfurinn _growled_ , shoving Glanni back into the wall again, narrowly avoiding smacking his head on the brick behind him.

“Don't play games with me Glæpur, I'm not in the mood. I gave you two rules, just two, and you've broken one of them.”

Glanni snarled. “I haven't done anything to those brats-”

“Not the kids; the gardens.”

Glanni was starting to panic now, this wasn't the game anymore. He dropped the facade instantly, letting his fear show on his face.

“I haven't been near the gardens- I don't-”

Íþróttaálfurinn dropped him abruptly, and his shaking legs gave out beneath him, leaving him panting and trembling on the icy ground.

“Stop, OK, just don't- I- I have to go,” he made a frustrated noise and stalked off, boots crunching angrily against the snow.

Glanni had taken credit for plenty of things he hadn't done- it was an excellent way to build a reputation without actually doing anything- but this... He didn't move from where Íþróttaálfurinn had dropped him for several minutes. He felt awful. Why did he feel awful? He was a master criminal, he wasn't supposed to feel awful about this sort of thing.

But Íþróttaálfurinn had looked at him like- like what? Like he hated him? Like he was disappointed in him? That was how it should be. He'd gotten complacent, he realised, let his guard down. He'd let Íþróttaálfurinn get under his skin and now it was _affecting_ him. It was even worse than he'd thought. He should never have gone along with any of it in the first place.

But all the same- it _hurt_. It hurt, that Íþróttaálfurinn thought he'd done it- had broken the rules of the game. It shouldn't; he'd never even intended to play by the rules to start with. It shouldn't. But it did.

He pulled his knees up to his chest, burying his face miserably in his arms.

He was cold again.

\---

_This is what you deserve. You know it._

\---

Íþróttaálfurinn's anger hadn't faded by the time he'd made it back to the gardens to inspect the damage. He trusted the kids, and if Halla said she'd seen Glanni last night, then she had. He'd thought he could trust Glanni, at least in this, but-apparently not. Maybe he should have known better.

They were ruined- all of the plants that had been waiting patiently in their beds for warmer months, they'd all been ripped up, the earth upturned, everything uprooted. The flower beds were untouched. Just the fruit and vegetables.

He sighed, feeling suddenly tired beyond his ability to comprehend. He'd thought that they had an understanding. That even if they weren't friends, exactly, that they were having _fun_. He had been having fun.

He knelt down, inspecting one of the uprooted strawberry bushes, hoping to salvage something. Some of the sturdier plants might survive, like the little pear trees they'd planted, but a lot of the bushes were a lost cause. They hadn't just been uprooted; they'd been torn to pieces. His magic might be able to fix some of the damage but much of it looked to be a lost cause.

He just- didn't understand _why_. Just the other day things had been- they'd been fine, Glanni had been fine. He felt...hollow. Like someone had scooped out his insides and then stomped on them for good measure. Would he be able to forgive Glanni for this? Probably. That was the worst part. He didn't think he had it in him to just- _drop_ Glanni, after everything. He wasn't sure what he'd do without him. Which was...a frightening thought, which he was absolutely not going to consider right now. He had a garden to fix. That at least, was something he could do.

His crystal beeped, and he sighed, standing up and dusting off his hands, brushing snow from his knees. The garden would have to wait just a little while then. At least it would give him something to distract himself with for a little while.

A little while turned out to be a few hours, and it was getting late by the time he was done; people got into so much trouble in icy weather.

A spade Halla had said. Íþróttaálfurinn frowned. The soil would have been frozen pretty hard, he realised, as he set about righting the pear trees.

How had _Glanni_ managed to do so much damage with a _spade_?

He ran his hands over the frosted ground; there were no footprints, it had snowed again recently, covering up any potential evidence, but the ground was such a mess that it hardly mattered. There was something about the upturned earth that seemed odd to him. Doubt began to sew it's seeds in his mind. There was that feeling again, like he was missing something. He sat back on his heels, and his eyes caught a sight so familiar that he had forgotten it was even there.

Goggi's camera.

\---

He wasn't going to play the game anymore, Glanni decided. It had been a mistake to let Íþróttaálfurinn pull him into it anyway. He'd let his guard down, and look where it had gotten him. He was cold, he felt like shit, and he had _no money_. It was time to pull out all of the stops. There was a train leaving for MayhemTown in an hour, and come hell or high water- Glanni would be on it.

He had big plans.

\---

_Run, little beast, run, run, run._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BOYS!!! GET YOUR SHIT TOGETHER!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have made a minor edit in chapter 5: Solla is 10, not 8. I forgot to take into account the time that had passed since the play.  
> Also, I've written this to tie the Christmas CD into it, but it's not essential to have listened to it for it to make sense.

“You should be out of here in a couple more days,” Íþróttaálfurinn said. He was sitting in the uncomfortable chair once more, jiggling his leg restlessly. Glanni groaned, head falling back onto his pillow with a soft thump.

“I won't survive that long,” he whined. “Just put me out of my misery.”

“No.”

“No, you wouldn't, you like to see me suffer.”

This time Íþróttaálfurinn managed to laugh.

\---

It was technically true that he wasn't trying to change Glanni. Not actively at least, but he could hope. Maybe if he was a bit nicer to him he'd respond in kind. It had been fun, chasing him about all over the place, but Glanni was _human_ and Íþróttaálfurinn was worried about the kind of life he was leading. If he could help him he would. Because it was the right thing to do. That was the only reason.

\---

Halla stuck her head around the door, peering about the room.

“Oh it's you again,” Glanni said, pulling a face as she slipped inside.

“What's wrong with you then?” she asked, trotting casually up to his bedside as if she owned the place. It was an admirable attitude to have, Glanni thought, so long as it wasn't directed at _him_.

“What do you mean, 'what's wrong with me'?” he asked, looking at her like she'd gone mad. “I got _stabbed_.”

Her eyes widened. “Really? Can I see?”

“No!”

“Íþróttaálfurinn said you were sick,” she said suspiciously, as if he were lying.

“Well I'm not!”

“What did it feel like?” she continued, as if he'd never spoken.

“Like someone inserted a knife into my gut, now get out!” he hissed.

Halla hopped up onto the chair next to his bed, getting herself comfortable. He wished desperately that Íþróttaálfurinn would come back and remove her, but he'd just left 'for a run' so that was unlikely. And wasn't it just like him to lie and spare the poor, innocent children the truth about why he was currently stuck in this hell hole? Ugh. He sighed.

“If I show you, will you leave?”

Halla nodded enthusiastically.

“Do _not_ tell Íþróttaálfurinn about this.”

“Cross my heart,” she said grinning.

 

“ _Ew_.”

“You were the one that wanted to see it!”

\---

The day he was released Íþróttaálfurinn asked the million dollar question; where will you be staying?

Glanni, who hadn't considered that Íþróttaálfurinn would care, or that he'd still be hovering about his bedside for this long, _panicked_.

“I have a safe house,” he said, vaguely, lying through his perfect teeth.

Íþróttaálfurinn squinted at him suspiciously. It made his moustache twitch.

“You have a safe house? Where is it?” he asked slowly.

“Well, obviously I can't tell you,” Glanni drawled dramatically. “That's why it's a safe house.”

“It's nowhere dangerous is it?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked apprehensively.

Glanni scoffed, getting in to the role. “No, don't be stupid, why would I go somewhere that was dangerous?”

“You just got stabbed by _very_ _dangerous_ people who you owed money to, I wouldn't put anything past you at this point.”

“Yes, but that was for a job, that's _different_. Besides, I just got out of here, you think I'd risk doing something that would put me back in this hell hole? No thanks,”

He wondered if he was overdoing it? Probably not, Íþróttaálfurinn was about as subtle as a brick, he probably wouldn't pick up on Glanni's blatant lies if he oversold them a little bit.

“Alright” Íþróttaálfurinn said at last, not sounding at all happy about it. “But, rule number two, remember? If you're in trouble, _tell me_.”

“Yes, yes,” Glanni lied.

\---

He knew Glanni didn't trust him, but he hoped he would, one day. Maybe if he gave him some time he'd come around. At least he could trust his crystal to tell him when something was wrong.

\---

Glanni did not have a safe house in LazyTown, partly because he didn't believe in safe houses. They were rarely, if ever safe, and sooner or later they would be discovered. He tended to find places to hide out in, empty houses, public buildings, the occasional hotel, but he rarely stayed in one place longer than a week or two. The other part was that Íþróttaálfurinn was right, he hadn't had time to set one up.

He also had secret stashes of emergency money hidden all around the nearby towns, but unfortunately he had none in LazyTown. It was October now anyway, and he always made sure to top up his resources over winter.

A low profile con was probably his best move. MayhemTown was not a good place for him now, obviously, but he had a few cons in reserve he could pull off easily over in PrideTown. The loan sharks weren't likely to stray outside their own turf; crime rates were a lot higher in MayhemTown than anywhere else, they wouldn't want to risk the exposure.

A low profile con would be the sensible move, _yes_ , but where was the fun in that?

\---

His first con after that was big and loud and attracted Íþróttaálfurinn's attention like a magnet. It involved a town wide chase across PrideTown, 3 police cars, and a rather memorable chase through an art gallery with several stray dogs in pursuit. The gallery owner had not been happy. Glanni wasn't even angry when he was caught. He had _fun_.

\---

The next time Glanni saw the kids together was about a month since he'd been released from hospital. Halla spotted him before he could make himself scarce and waved excitedly, before running over to him.

“Glanni!”

The other kids were eyeing him suspiciously, whispering to one another.

“What do you want now you little devil?”

Halla tugged on his sleeve “Come on! You should play with us!”

Glanni sneered “I'm a master criminal, I don't _play_ with anyone,”

“You play with Íþróttaálfurinn!” she said accusingly.

“That's...different.” he said, hesitantly. It involved a lot more trips to police stations for one thing.

“I'll tell him you showed me where you got stabbed,” she threatened, letting go of his sleeve to put her hands on her hips.

“Blackmail,” he said, approvingly “Good move.”

“Alright you little brats!” he yelled over to the gawking children, who jumped guiltily. “Who wants to hear some prison stories?”

 

“Have you been telling the kids stories about prison?”

“Yeah, they loved it.”

“Glanni!”

\---

It was Christmas and it had been 7 months since that day in the prison cell, and 2 months since that day in the hospital when Íþróttaálfurinn had changed the rules.

“Decided to behave yourself for Christmas have you?”

Íþróttaálfurinn sat down next Glanni on the sofa he'd commandeered for himself in the quietest corner of the room. Glanni conveniently did not tell him about how he had initially wanted to ruin Christmas for everyone else out of spite.

“Don't get used to it,” he grumbled, sinking further back into the sofa, folding his arms. He wouldn't want anyone to think he was _enjoying_ himself. “I'll be back to my devious ways soon enough, don't you worry.”

Íþróttaálfurinn laughed. “I don't doubt it. You know, I'm sure you could use your talents for other things,”

Glanni stilled. He flicked his eyes over to Íþróttaálfurinn, but no innuendo was forthcoming. He wasn't even looking at Glanni, he was watching the kids play. It appeared to be a genuine statement. Interesting point though; he'd never flirted with Íþróttaálfurinn. He should try it sometime, just to see what happened. It always paid to know how people would react to things.

“Yes, but then you wouldn't get to chase me,” he said, smirking.

Íþróttaálfurinn smiled, still watching the kids. “True,“I do enjoy a challenge. It's nice to have someone who can keep up with me, so to speak,”

“Alright, don't get sentimental on me or anything,” huffed Glanni defensively.

“Sorry,” Íþróttaálfurinn smiled, looking anything but, “Christmas always makes me homesick.”

He almost wanted to ask where Íþróttaálfurinn was from, but that might encourage him to think they were friends, so he said nothing.

“What do you usually do for Christmas?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked.

“I don't usually bother,” Shit, why did he say that? He wasn't supposed to tell Íþróttaálfurinn anything. That was the whole point in not pursuing topics like this with him. It was strictly business. Or strictly the game, as it were.

“Oh,” was all the hero said. “Well, it's nice that you're here now. I know the kids wanted you to be here.”

They fell into an almost comfortable silence after that. The kids were busy wrapping each other up in tinsel, except for Nenni who was making himself a nest out of all of the pieces he'd hoarded for himself.

“I still don't understand why you bother with me,” Glanni said at last, unable to stop himself. It _bothered_ him, that he didn't know why Íþróttaálfurinn kept chasing after him- it wasn't like it was his job or anything.

“I don't know. You're...interesting.” Íþróttaálfurinn said, slowly, cocking his head to look at Glanni.

“Oh, thank you, nice to know you view me as some sort of zoo exhibit.”

“Hmm, no, I think zoo animals probably have better manners than you.”

Glanni snorted into his drink.

“Really though, I poisoned the entire town, and you've just what? Forgiven and forgotten?”

“No, I think what you did was awful, especially involving the children,” Íþróttaálfurinn's eyes flashed dangerously “and if you hurt them in anyway again I won't forgive you. But” his expression softened “I think people deserve second chances.”

Glanni shifted uncomfortably.

“And no one was really hurt, don't think I didn't notice that. I think there's a distinct difference between the type of criminal you are, and the type you pretend to be. I've been to MayhemTown, I know what people are like there, and there are tons of criminals who wouldn't have thought twice about giving people something fatal to up sales”

Glanni suddenly felt very, very exposed, like Íþróttaálfurinn could see inside his head. No, he hadn't killed anyone; he liked money, not murder.

“Yes well,” he said, taking a drink just for something to do. “You can't con a corpse.”

\---

“Íþróttaálfurinn!”

_Slap._

“Wake up!!”

_Slap._

“Hm?”

He opened his eyes and Glanni's panicked face swam into view above him.

“What's wrong?” he asked thickly, trying to persuade his body to sit up. Was his crystal beeping? What had happened? His cheek was stinging. Why was his cheek stinging?

“What's wrong is that you didn't tell me that sugar puts you in a fucking coma!” Glanni screeched, shrilly.

Íþróttaálfurinn winced, the sound going straight through him. Sometimes his sensitive hearing was a drawback, and dealing with Glanni was usually one of those times. He had a tendency to shriek.

“Well sorry if I didn't want to tell a wanted criminal how to knock me unconscious!” he snapped, finally managing to sit up and wincing as he did so. He needed an apple. Or five.

“I thought you were dead!!”

He looked up at Glanni then, finally noticing the fearful edge to his voice.

“Glanni, I didn't know you cared” he smirked, enjoying the way Glanni spluttered, turning bright red. It was always so funny to make him lose his composure. _Point to me_.

“I don't! My hand was starting to hurt from slapping you!”

Glanni lobbed the apple Íþróttaálfurinn hadn't realised he'd been holding at his stomach. _Hard_. He stalked off, leaving the elf winded on the floor. Íþróttaálfurinn still counted that as a win.

\---

“So, about the sugar.”

“Yes Glanni?” he sighed.

“What is that, like a medical thing?”

“Hmm, you could say that.”

\---

“Glanni, will you do my nails for me?”

“You want them pink, I assume?”

\---

“Glanni, can I have this?”

Glanni shrugged, not looking up from painting his nails.

“Yeah sure, knock yourself out.”

 

“Did you give Nenni that scarf? That was...nice of you?”

“Well, I mean it wasn't mine anyway so...”

“...Nenni get back here, you can't have that!” Íþróttaálfurinn shouted, taking off after the boy.

\---

“I cannot believe that worked!” Glanni crowed gleefully.

It had worked because the chains were made of iron, but Glanni didn't know that. Íþróttaálfurinn wiggled, but of course the chains refused to give, and he was left suspended from the end of the hook like a very indignant caterpillar.

Glanni stood back, grinning, cocking his head to admire his work.

“Chains are a good luck for you” he said at last, his grin looking distinctly predatory.

Íþróttaálfurinn could feel the tips of his ears turn red. He was glad Glanni couldn't see them, but from the way Glanni was snickering his mortification showed on his face anyway.

 _Well_ , Íþróttaálfurinn thought, _two could play at that game._

\---

“I notice you haven't been back to MayhemTown for a while” Íþróttaálfurinn said. He was currently flying the balloon over there on the way back to LiarTown.

“Yes well, I'd rather not risk it. I'm in no hurry to get stabbed again thanks,” Glanni was lounging in the bottom of the basket trying to look casual in handcuffs. He was surprisingly good at it.

Íþróttaálfurinn was secretly relieved that Glanni was not going back there any time soon. He preferred it when Glanni was nearby. So he could keep an eye on him, of course.

The sun glinted off the handcuffs. The wind ruffled Glanni's short hair and coloured his cheeks pink. Íþróttaálfurinn remembered the chains.

“I could get used to seeing you like that,” he said, making a show of eyeing Glanni up and down.

Glanni's eyebrows twitched, like he was surprised but trying not to show it. He smirked.

“Kinky.”

Íþróttaálfurinn laughed so hard he almost threw them off course.

\---

Sometimes Glanni didn't even actually _do_ anything illegal, he just decided to hang about and _annoy_ Íþróttaálfurinn. Sometime after the incident with the sugar, Glanni managed to knock him out by dissolving sugar packets into his water and then shaved off half his moustache while he was unconscious.

Íþróttaálfurinn didn't even have to chase him after that one, because Glanni was still there when he woke up, laughing hysterically on the floor next to him. It was a very loud, undignified sound, and Íþróttaálfurinn could have listened to it all day.

\---

The flirting quickly became Íþróttaálfurinn's favourite part of the game, but it was also the most dangerous, because Glanni almost _always_ won. It didn't mean anything though. It was just a game.

\---

“Hey, Siggi, I'll give you all three of these chocolate bars if you tell Íþróttaálfurinn I went the other way when he comes through here.”

“Done.”

 

“Glanni stop giving the kids sweets when it's not candy day!”

\---

Íþróttaálfurinn wasn't keeping an eye on Glanni anymore, so much as he was chasing him about, and waiting eagerly for their next encounter. He hadn't had so much fun in _years_.

\---

They both stopped counting the months. They floated in and out of each others lives as if they have always been there. Neither of them notice.

\---

Glanni never stayed in prison for long, and his cons get more and more frivolous, more obvious. It's no fun, after all, if Íþróttaálfurinn doesn't show up to chase him.

He never did get around to replenishing his funds as often as he should; getting reactions out of Íþróttaálfurinn was a lot more fun, so what did it matter really if his cons don't always make him any money? His supplies dwindled. He barely noticed.

The police barely even bothered with him anymore; they all know Íþróttaálfurinn will turn up sooner or later, and they start to just leave them to it. Glanni became a regular feature in LazyTown. The hotel even allowed him to stay there sometimes, as long as he paid, which wasn't often.

\---

Íþróttaálfurinn was _giggling_.

Glanni squinted at him. “Are you drunk?”

“No...maybe just a little.”

“Oh _wonderful_. You're bad enough sober.”

Íþróttaálfurinn just laughed, listing into Glanni's side. It was Christmas again. They were sitting on the same sofa from the year before, once again watching the children run about. Glanni had never expected to be back here, but was somehow glad that he was. He blamed the alcohol.

“I'm not intoxicated enough to be dealing with this,” he muttered, grabbing the glass from Íþróttaálfurinn's unresisting hand. He drained what was left of whatever was in the glass in one gulp. Cider, of course.

“I'm surprised you drank this at all, even if it is made of apples. You're so uptight about what goes into your body,”

Was that too blunt?

“Hmm, only on special occasions,” Íþróttaálfurinn listed further into Glanni's side, leaning his entire weight on him.

Glanni was suddenly glad he didn't take the bait on that one.

“Oh god you're a sleepy drunk aren't you?” he whined as Íþróttaálfurinn's head brushed the side of his face.

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Don't fall asleep on me, you'll crush my delicate frame with your awful muscles.”

Íþróttaálfurinn's eyes were doing that crinkly thing again. It always happened when he laughed, and Glanni really had to remember to stop making him do it.

“I don't feel as homesick this year...” Íþróttaálfurinn mumbled sleepily.

Glanni wished he had another drink. Anything to distract him from whatever that statement meant.

Luckily for Glanni the universe provided, and someone plied them with a few more drinks as the evening went on. It might have been Stína but he honestly didn't remember.

All he knew was that at some point Íþróttaálfurinn tipped his head back, giggling even more now that he had a few more drinks in him, when he stilled squinting in concentration at something above him. His mouth hung open gormlessly for a moment, and Glanni smiled into his drink. He was too far gone to tell himself it was a bad idea to find the sight endearing. Especially with Íþróttaálfurinn still pressed to his side.

Glanni looked up to see what he was staring at.

Mistletoe. When had that gotten there?

They stare at each other for a long moment. Íþróttaálfurinn's face is twitching like he's trying not to laugh.

“I will if you will” said Glanni, daring.

“I will if _you_ will” said Íþróttaálfurinn, which was very childish. Glanni was almost proud.

Before either of them could think better of it, he grabbed the front of Íþróttaálfurinn's shirt and smashed their faces unceremoniously together. It was probably awful, but he couldn't really tell through the haze of alcohol. He felt warm all over. Burning from the inside out. Like hot coals warming his heart.

He pulled back. Íþróttaálfurinn looked dazed and there was lipstick smeared on his face. It was a good look for him in, Glanni's opinion.

Íþróttaálfurinn giggled again.

“Merry Christmas Glanni.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was originally like...1300 words longer, but I've decided to save those for the sequel when they'll become relevant because it was throwing the pacing off :')


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who's ready for some world building?

Glanni was lying in a dingy hotel room staring at the cracks in the ceiling, trying to quell that same nervous hum that had been plaguing him the last few days. He had tried to sleep on the train but he hadn't been able stop his mind from thinking and thinking and _thinking_. He needed to pull off a big job, that was what it was. He'd spent too long on short, small cons, he needed something big, and loud, and profitable.

Something _risky_.

Glanni had had this particular plan on the back-burner for a long time now, but he'd never given serious thought about putting it into action. He'd been too busy _enjoying_ himself with Íþróttaálfurinn . Letting himself get distracted.

He didn't need Íþróttaálfurinn , or his game. He'd managed perfectly well before they started their town wide cat and mouse game, and he'd managed perfectly well afterwards. No matter how much his heart tried to persuade him otherwise.

He didn't _need_ Íþróttaálfurinn . Or want him.

He began to plan.

\---

The kids stood about gloomily the next morning, having all heard by now what Glanni had done from Halla and Solla. Maggi had been heartbroken over the damage, and Íþróttaálfurinn had done his best to console him. He wasn't really sure it had worked, and not for the first time he wished he was better at that sort of thing. Give him a physical challenge to overcome and he could do it no problem, but an emotional one?

Íþróttaálfurinn felt that same spike of anger at seeing their miserable faces. They'd _liked_ Glanni, Halla in particular had taken quite a shine to him, and seeing her staring balefully at the ground made his fists clench. His eyes flickered over to the camera. Well, he'd have a definite answer one way or another. He just wasn't sure which one he was hoping for.

He let them off easy that morning; none of them looked up to anything strenuous and he didn't have it in him to try and coax more out of them than they were willing to give at the moment. He wasn't sure they even noticed; they all seemed a bit dazed.

“Goggi,”Íþróttaálfurinn said approaching the boy as the group began to disband. “I have a favour to ask.”

“Oh, sure Íþróttaálfurinn , anything!”

Goggi's room felt like a different country to Íþróttaálfurinn . He wasn't very technologically minded at the best of times, but Goggi took his gadgets very seriously and his room was a veritable treasure trove of old and new technology alike. Íþróttaálfurinn stood as still as he could and tried not to knock anything over; everything looked so _breakable_.

Goggi had persuaded the mayor to let him put the camera up sometime after Glanni's first and only con in LazyTown. He said it was so they would have evidence, if they ever had trouble again like the sort Glanni had caused, but really it had just been an excuse to test out his new gadget. Íþróttaálfurinn had even helped him put it up, and he knew he had a number of archived recordings of their morning sessions. Everyone had just gotten used to it, after awhile; it might as well not even be there anymore for all the attention they gave it.

“I thought Glanni was the one that ruined the gardens? That's what Nenni told me, anyway,” Goggi said, fiddling with his computer.

“I just want to be sure.” Íþróttaálfurinn said, levelly.

“Here we go,” the boy said, pulling up the video.

The time-stamp in the corner read 10:15. The gardens were intact, and there was no sign of Glanni. Íþróttaálfurinn made a mental note to talk to Halla about how late she was staying up. Goggi skipped the video forward. 11:32, 00:07, 00:40- a shadow moved-

“Wait! Stop!” cried Íþróttaálfurinn , forgetting himself and leaning forward suddenly, narrowly avoiding knocking over a pile of floppy disks.

Goggi steadied the precarious stack and turned back to his computer, letting the footage play.

It was a deer.

A sleek, black thing, that just wandered right into the town square. To Íþróttaálfurinn 's amazement, it began digging up the gardens, tearing into them one by one. And then it just- wandered off again, trotting into the shadows and out of sight.

“Huh,” said Goggi, scratching his head and looking a little sheepish “I guess we should have just checked this from the start?”  
_Yes_ , thought Íþróttaálfurinn , _yes I should have_.

 

After watching the footage over another time, Íþróttaálfurinn went outside to inspect the gardens again. He'd never learned how to read tracks; it had never interested him, and it wasn't a skill that he had really needed. It had also required too much sitting still and looking at things on his part, which he had never been very good at. Still, he thought he could maybe make out a half hoof-print or two, frozen into the ground. It was a moot point anyway. He'd seen the video, he knew it was a deer. It was strange, for it to wander into a town, but not unheard of he supposed. They was surrounded by rural areas after all, it wasn't impossible for a deer to have found its way into town.

He felt hollow again. Maybe it was a feeling he should get used to- it seemed to be happening a lot lately. He'd chosen to believe there was a little goodness in Glanni, a tiny seed that might grow just a little if nurtured, but at the first sign of trouble he'd just- he rubbed a tired hand over his face. He'd expected Glanni to trust him but he hadn't been able to return the favour.

_He's a con artist, what was I supposed to do?_

No, that didn't matter, they'd- they'd had something. Glanni hadn't been causing that much trouble even, he'd been spending more and more time in LazyTown. They'd made progress, hadn't they? He thought desperately. Surely?

He stared unseeing at the ground for a long time, thinking. What had changed since he'd first met Glanni? Had anything changed? Really changed, at all? Or had this past year just been a lull, a brief vacation from their usual lives?

“Oh, Íþróttaálfurinn look! Aren't they pretty?”

Solla's voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He stood, walking over to the flower beds to see what she was looking at. Oh.

“Yes...yes they are,” he said, feeling more bewildered than ever.

There were flowers growing in the gardens. In winter. In the _snow_. He knelt down to inspect them.

Cranesbill, Speedwell, Marsh Marigold, Lady’s Smock, all the things he had planted with the children, all of them were flowering out of season.

The flowerbeds were full of wild flowers, rather than the more cultivated varieties usually found in garden beds. Íþróttaálfurinn had suggested the children plant wild flowers, and had been delighted when they had taken to the idea. So many things in LazyTown were different from his village, but wild flowers were the same wherever you went. They made him feel more at home.

It had to be magic. It was the only reason there should be flowers in the winter, peeking happily out of the snow as if it were the middle of summer.

Íþróttaálfurinn had never been particularly gifted with magic, even when he had been persuaded to sit still long enough to practice using it, but he'd always had a way with flowers. You could learn a lot from plants, but only if they had something to tell you. Only if you _listened_.

He reached out to touch the petals, nudging them delicately with his fingertips. The flowers were ice cold, but seemed as healthy as could be.

“Do you have something to tell me, hm?” he said lowly as Solla peered curiously over his shoulder.

He closed his eyes and took a deep, slow breath, feeling the icy air fill his lungs, cleared his mind, and _listened_.

Nothing. Just the cold.

He sighed, standing and dusting snow of his knees.

“Come on,” he said to Solla. “Why don't you find Maggi and he can come and help us clear some of this snow away from the flowers hm?”

Glanni would turn up again soon, and when he did Íþróttaálfurinn would apologise to him. He'd show himself eventually, he always did. Íþróttaálfurinn just had to wait.

\---

Glanni gathered up his things and headed back to the dingy hotel he was currently squirrelled away in. It was still snowing. He hated it. He took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to dispel the feeling inside of him. Like he was in danger. But he _wasn't_. He was _fine_.

He had a weeks worth of undercover work and information gathering behind him and soon it would be time to put the next stage of his plan into action. He had to focus, he couldn't _afford_ to get distracted.

He walked past a window, and saw a shadow flash by in the reflection. _There was nothing there_ , he told himself sternly. _You're imagining things._

His legs began to shake.

_Run. Run, run, run._

No. there was nothing to run _from_.

_Footsteps in the snow._

There weren't any-

_Run!_

He did.

He didn't stop until he was safely behind the locked door of his room with a chair leaning against the handle. He curled up on the bed, shivering. He was so _cold_. What was _wrong_ with him?

\---

It had been a week and Glanni hadn't shown himself yet. But Glanni always came back. Always. Íþróttaálfurinn kept telling himself this, but he wasn't sure he believed it anymore.

He tried his best to keep things going as usual, but the kids were starting to notice something was wrong. He caught Solla giving him concerned looks every now and then. After a few days, Halla, who looked as miserable as ever, asked him when Glanni was coming back. He did not have an answer for her, and the stricken look on her face broke his heart. He wished he were _better_ at this.

The flowers were still thriving, despite the weather, and every morning Íþróttaálfurinn tried to coax some answers out of them. They wouldn't speak to him still, no matter how many times he tried and he couldn't figure out _why_. They were not naturally occurring, he knew that, and flowers coaxed to life by magic always had secrets to tell. They always spoke the loudest.

He'd spent the last 3 years in LazyTown, and had not once encountered an ounce of magic, so what had changed. What was it about the flowers?

Flowers.

_Flowers on the mountain._

_Fish in a stream._  

Of course! It was that feeling again, that there was something just outside of his reach that he couldn't touch. He ran to the balloon, vaulting himself into the basket and setting off, for once feeling like he could _do_ something.

 

The old man was not outside when Íþróttaálfurinn approached the little house, but the dog was and it barked eagerly at him, wagging it's tail happily at the prospect of a visitor.

Íþróttaálfurinn knelt down to scratch behind his ears and the door creaked open, revealing the old man from the week before.

“Hello!” Íþróttaálfurinn greeted him brightly, offering him his hand “I don't know if you remember me-”

“You're the young man from the other day, the one who were looking for his friend, Íþróttaálfurinn isn't it?” he said taking Íþróttaálfurinn's hand and smiling warmly “I trust you found him alright?”

“I- I did yes,” he saidm nodding. “I was wondering- last time I was here you mentioned something about 'flowers on the mountain'? What did you mean by that?”

The old man withdrew his pipe from his pocket and set about lighting it.

“It were a popular story once I gather,” he said “my grandmother told it to me, but it were old even then and not many people talked about it much,” he paused, putting the pipe to his wrinkled lips. “But, if you'd like to hear it...?” he trailed off, looking expectantly at Íþróttaálfurinn.

“Please,”

“Alright then,” he nodded, taking a seat in the old wooden chair. The dog took that as it's cue to curl up at his feet.

“Once, there were a husband and wife crossing over the mountain” he gestured to it “it were winter, and of course, even in warm weather crossing mountains is dangerous, but oh, it were icy as death that year, and the husband slipped- broke his neck, the poor soul. His wife could not carry his body and cross the mountain herself, so she buried him, making a funeral mound of rocks for the ground was too hard for her to dig him a proper grave.

She was heartbroken, as I'm sure you can imagine; it always hurts, to lose someone you love. And though she knew she must be on her way she sat by his grave for hours, weeping. And where her tears fell; flowers began to grow. Right there in the dead of winter! And from the flowers there grew a woman, so beautiful she could not be described.

She told the wife that she was the spirit of the mountain, and so moved was she by the woman's love for her husband that she had crossed into the mortal world to comfort her. She promised that she would watch over her husband's grave, and that she would make sure that no one else came to any harm on the mountain.

All the woman had to do in return was to give her a name. Flowers on the Mountain, she called her.”

Oh, Íþróttaálfurinn thought. _Oh_.

“It's a lovely story it is” the old man went on, nodding to himself “even if it has fallen out of fashion a bit to believe in such things- I have always felt that she was up there, watching out for people.”

“I see. Yes- it-it's a beautiful story,” Íþróttaálfurinn managed through his spinning thoughts. “Thank you for telling it to me,- uh-?”

“Njáll,” the old man supplied for him, shaking his hand again and smiling. “Think nothing of it, my lad. It's nice to have someone listen to an old man's stories once in a while.”

The dog barked.

“Well, someone who understands,” Njáll said, laughing.

 

Magic was a funny thing. It was everywhere, an integral part of nature, and more often than not it could be staring you in the face and you wouldn't see it, not unless you really _looked_. There was the magic of say, the landscape, of the air and the water and the earth and so on, and then there was concious magic. Concious magic required sentience, it required intent, it was the sort of magic that all hidden folk had.

But nature spirits weren't _really_ hidden folk. They were incorporeal and invisible, and they were tied to the landscape they lived around, they gave it life and magic, but did not always interact with the physical world.

Unless someone gave them a name. Names were powerful things when dealing with magic, especially for nature spirits. To give them a name was to give them a tie to the physical plane. Like most elven villages, Íþróttaálfurinn 's own had it's guardian nature spirit. It had two, in fact, if you counted the spirit of his village's sister city. They were deities to hidden folk, but ones that were part of everyday life that could be seen and heard. To Íþróttaálfurinn , Flowers on the Mountain was a God.

Perhaps she was trying to communicate with him. There weren't really any other hidden folk around here, to his knowledge, and humans very rarely communicated with nature spirits. Did she need him for something? Íþróttaálfurinn thought, as he walked up the mountain, having said goodbye to Njáll. She must have saved Glanni, it was the only explanation as to why he had survived that fall from the basket.

He stopped, about a third of the way up, and felt the silence of the snow around him. He cleared his throat.

“Flowers on the Mountain?” he said.

There was no reply, but that did not mean she wasn't listening.

“Thank you,” he said. “For saving Glanni- I” he swallowed, feeling suddenly nervous “I am in your debt. If there is anything I can do to repay you, please tell me.”

He waited, breath clouding in the empty air.

“The flowers, in town, they're yours aren't they?” he went on, when no answer was forthcoming.

Still nothing. Just the low hum of the wind and the distant sound of birdsong. She did not wish to speak to him, and Íþróttaálfurinn could not make her.

He sighed, feeling no better than he had that morning, his brief spark of hope at having something to do fizzled out. He started his way back down the mountain.

 

When he got back to town, Halla was waiting for him.

“Have you seen Glanni yet?” she asked eagerly, as he landed.

“No, Halla, I haven't,” he told her, with no small amount of regret.

Her face fell, and she sat down next to the basket, knees drawn up to her chin and scowling at the snow.

“I bet he hates me and that's why he's not coming back,”

“He doesn't hate you, Halla,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, climbing out of the basket and sitting beside her, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“He _does_. It's my fault he got the blame for the gardens when it was just a stupid deer.” She buried her face in her arms.

“No, you just told me what you saw,” he said firmly. “I was the one who jumped to conclusions and blamed him, if he hates anyone it's going to be me.” He hoped that wasn't the case. He really did.

He swallowed thickly. He wished he were _better_ at this.

“He'll come back,” he said, hoping he sounded surer than he felt. “He always does.” He didn't know if he was saying it for Halla's benefit or his own.

\---

Glanni started vacantly at his newly stolen blueprints, trying to focus on his plan.

He _missed_ Íþróttaálfurinn . Íþróttaálfurinn who smiled at him and flirted with him and made him feel wanted. Íþróttaálfurinn who had made him feel better in the last few months than he had in years. Íþróttaálfurinn who hated him.

Íþróttaálfurinn who he-

_No._

He'd been so stupid to think what they had could have lasted. He was a _criminal_ , whatever it was that they had...it wasn't for him. It never had been.

Again, that feeling of isolation threatened to overwhelm him, and he shook his head, trying banish the unwanted thoughts.

He set to work.

\---

_You know how it feels now, don't you? You know, you know, you know._

\---

He felt... _bad_. Like something terrible was going to happen. An unfounded anxiety that he couldn't understand. He couldn't remember the last time he had had a good nights sleep. He kept dreaming of blood and snow, and of Íþróttaálfurinn 's angry face. And he could _never get warm._ He was sure someone was following him, but he just didn't know who. Just that he had to keep moving, or they would find him.

\---

 _It's still not enough though. It will never be enough._  

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

There were plenty of gangs in MayhemTown, and Glanni had an in with many of them. After a lifetime of crime Glanni had a keen understanding of how the criminal worlds of all the neighbouring towns worked, but MayhemTown was where he worked best. Crime rates were high, police budgets were low, and throughout the years he had been in and out of so many gangs that he had lost count. The team-ups were always short lived, however; as good as he was at faking it, Glanni was not a people person.

The Razorbacks were...not his usual choice. He had had minimal contact with them in the past but had never had cause to work with them closely. However, needs must, and they had the resources and man power he needed to pull off this job. But most importantly they were very loud and very distracting, which was exactly what he needed them to be. They thrived on rampant destruction more than anything actually resembling organised crime, and Glanni was sure they would take centre stage in his little escapade. No one would even notice what he was up to.

The leader of the Razorbacks was a weasely man by the name of Tusk, who, rumour had it, had once beaten a man to death with his own arm. Looking at him, it wasn't something Glanni would put past him. He carried a baseball bat with nails in it and wore a lot of leather with bits of metal attached. There were even more bits of metal sticking into his skin. In fact, all of the Razorbacks dressed like this. And they all had shaved heads with really awful mohawks. Like razorbacks, he supposed. How tacky. Honestly, they were like a walking clichés.

While the underlings of the Razorbacks occupied varying levels of less than average intelligence, Tusk was a lot smarter and a lot more shrewd than any of his lackeys, and had required some convincing to go along with Glanni's plan. He was currently watching him suspiciously from the sidelines, not saying anything.

“This plan of yours gonna work Glæpur?” growled a particularly stupid henchman that Glanni hadn't bothered to learn the name of.

“Of course it will! My plans always work, don't you know that?” he bristled, throwing in just the right amount of arrogance for good measure.

“I heard you'd been getting' awful close with that hero from LazyTown,” Henchman said, eyeing him suspiciously, which involved a lot of squinting and concentration on his part.

Oh. Oh dear. Glanni felt panic begin to prickle over his skin. That energetic moron had _ruined_ his reputation. He'd have to fix that.

“Haven't you heard the phrase, keep your friends close but your enemies closer?” he said slyly, leaning casually against the cluttered table in front of them. These people were so _untidy_. At least if Glanni had had a safe house he'd have kept it _clean_.

“No.”

Oh god, _this_ was what he had to work with?

“Well now you have, and that is _exactly_ why I let that fool underestimate me. Now, he would never expect me to be back here, planning such a big job.”

This at least, was true. But Íþróttaálfurinn probably didn't care what he did now, anyway. Why would he? That crushing feeling of _alone-ness_ came back to him again. He pushed it away. Nothing had changed. He'd always been alone. He always would be, and that was how he liked it.

 _You had Íþróttaálfurinn_.

No, he _hadn't_ , it had been...a phase. A fun distraction at best, and now he could get back to pulling big and elaborate criminal schemes like he always had. He shuddered, forcing his mind back on track against the swelling of unease and general feeling of _badness_ rising up inside of him. As soon as he got back to pulling big cons he'd feel better, he _would_.

He spread the blueprints on the table, knocking over several empty beer cans in the process. The Razorbacks shuffled in for a better look as he began to explain the job. He went over the plan, enunciating carefully and using small words for his rather stupid audience.

“Now,” he said “before we're you're inside, you're going to need to cut the alarms, the phones and the cameras.” He pointed out the appropriate places on the schematics. “Then you come in, take care of the guards, the usual. I'd say we're going to have about 15 minutes until the police show up, and 30 minutes, give or take, before things start to get difficult, so we need to be out of there before then.”

Simple bank jobs weren't really something he enjoyed, but there was a safety deposit box in MayhemTown bank that contained some particularly sensitive information that Glanni could put to excellent use. The Razorbacks weren't privy to this, however; they thought he just wanted into the bank vaults, and were willing to lend out the manpower so long as they got a decent cut, and got to cause plenty of chaos.

“I'll be wearing this,” he said, producing the blue suit he'd acquired for this job, “so remember what it looks like- I don't want things to get complicated just because you don't realise it's me.”

“That's your disguise?” Henchman #2 said doubtfully.

“Yes?” he said impatiently.

“That's not going to fool anyone!”

“Oh, it will.” Glanni pulled on the suit over his usual attire, picked up his briefcase, put on his glasses, and _smiled_.

The henchman jumped, looking startled. “How did you do that?” he demanded.

“Do what?” Glanni asked, innocently.

“Your face, I could have sworn it-, never mind” he stuttered blinking. “Must be the lights in here.”

Glanni pulled of the glasses, grinning to himself.

_Yep, still got it._

“Now? Any questions? No? Good, we pull this off in two days, be ready.” He shooed them away and turned, rolling up the blueprints and slipping them back into the bag with his disguise, as the group dispersed.

A bony arm snaked itself around Glanni's shoulders. He tried not to grimace, much.

“Glæpur, me and the gang are going to The Flaming Arrow for a drink, you in?” he said, smiling crookedly with a mouth full of silver. Glanni wondered how many of his actual teeth he even had left.

“No thank you, I have work to do,” he said disinterestedly. He plucked Tusk's arm off his shoulders, and went back to rolling up the floor plans for the bank.

The Flaming Arrow was the absolute seediest place in all of MayhemTown, which was saying something. There was an average of about 3 bar fights per night, and the entire place smelled like piss and blood. The floor was always sticky, even though the one eyed bartender always seemed to be cleaning it, and the drinks there could sear the taste buds right off your tongue. Even on his best days The Flaming Arrow was somewhere Glanni generally avoided, and he'd been so far beyond his best days lately. He hadn't had a decent nights sleep all week. He resisted the urge to rub his eyes tiredly.

“Really?” Tusk persisted, throwing the arm back over Glanni's shoulder. “Now what else could you possibly have to do? Because the way I see it, we're all set to start the job the day after tomorrow.”

Ah, so that was his angle.

“I can't imagine what you mean,” he sniffed, hoping to throw him off.

“Look, Glæpur,” Tusk hissed, quiet and threatening, pulling him close. Glanni didn't bother to hide his grimace this time. “My people don't trust you, and neither do I, so you're going to come for a drink with us, and you're going to let me in on the other part of this little plan of yours you've got going on, right?”

Glanni sighed. Playing nice was _always_ the worst part of working with other people.

 

The Flaming Arrow was actually _worse_ than he remembered it. There was not a single window left intact, and they had all been patched up with layers of tape and mouldy looking bits of cardboard. The neon sign still flickered and stuttered but there was now a distinctly singed look to it, like it was on the verge of burning itself out. Either that or someone had set it on fire. Probably the latter, actually; the bar was really just called 'The Arrow', but it got set on fire at least once a fortnight so people had tacked on the 'Flaming' part as a sort of affectionate nickname. It amazed Glanni that anyone could _have_ affection for the place. Someone had foolishly tried to put some posters up but there were only the tattered and stained corners left now. As usual, the bartender was mopping the floor, which did absolutely nothing. Maybe he was just trying to spread the muck more evenly.

Tusk set a drink down in front of him once they were seated in a reasonably quiet corner, and folded his wiry arms, looking determined. The various bits of metal on his jacket clinked as he moved.

“Spill,” he said. “What are you up to?”

Glanni downed whatever it was that Tusk had ordered for him, steeling himself for the conversation to come. It tasted awful and probably had enough alcohol in it to kill an elephant. He ordered another.

“I'm taking him down.”

“Who?”

Glanni cocked an eyebrow meaningfully. “You know.”

Tusk paled. “Are you crazy?” he hissed, mindful of the other ears in the room. “I'm not having _anything_ to do with that!”

Glanni shrugged, sipping his second drink. It still tasted foul. “You were the one that wanted to know.” Was there vodka in this? He sniffed it. Well, there went his sense of smell for the next half an hour.

“Yeah, but I didn't think it was going to be something so _stupid_!” Tusk exclaimed, wild eyed and no doubt questioning Glanni's sanity.

'He' was Mr. Ottó Ósannindi, the owner of a very profitable chain of packaging plants in MayhemTown. He did great business all over the place; in PrideTown, LiarTown, GreedyTown, you name it! He was a very rich and powerful man with a lot of business connections. He also happened to be the leader of one of the biggest gangs in the area, controlling a vast amount of the criminal underworld of MayhemTown. The police had been trying to pin things on him for years and hadn't managed it yet. He also happened to be the man that 'Rikki Rikur' owed money to. Well, in fact he owed the proportionate cost of how much it had taken to make his fake food product and the equipment and packaging for it. Perhaps it hadn't been Glanni's wisest move, getting involved with such a big name crook, but it has been the easiest way to get what he wanted at the time. After escaping prison he had figured LazyTown would be a good place to set up shop, so to speak. There was no criminal activity there at all, because it was just so _small_. And boring. Glanni would have had free reign of the place. If not for Íþróttaálfurinn.

He sighed wistfully. _Well, the best laid plans..._

He shook himself out of his reverie. If all went to plan, he wouldn't have to worry about any of that anymore.

“...What exactly did you have in mind?” Tusk asked eventually, curiosity colouring his voice.

And there it was. Give the little fish a taste and they'd come swimming back for more. Still, perhaps letting Tusk in on the deal would be a good option. He'd have someone to share the blame with if everything went belly up.

“Oh, you know” he said with feigned casualness. “Get him taken down, take his stuff, up my reputation. That sort of thing.” He sipped his drink again, if only to give himself something to do.

“You mean get the cops to take him down?” Tusk prompted.

Glanni nodded. “Let them do the work for me. Besides, it's safer than getting directly involved.”

Tusk chewed his lip. He downed his own drink, setting the glass heavily back down on the table and smacking his lips.

“Alright, I want in,”

Of course he did. Glanni sighed.

Just then someone smashed a bottle over a Razorback's head.

“Hey!” Tusk vaulted over the table, bat in hand, joining in with the rapidly escalating fight.

Glanni sighed again, ducking underneath the table and to finish off his second drink in relative safety. He _hated_ The Arrow.

\---

Íþróttaálfurinn had been trying valiantly to distract himself with a few laps around town before finally heading of to bed when his crystal began to beep. His usually calm mind had been a jittery mess since he had last seen Glanni. He'd even tried looking for him, when his patience and faith that he would reappear had worn out, but to no avail. He wanted so desperately to apologise, to get things back the way they were. He felt strangely lost without his 'nemesis' to chase.

He'd never really been sure exactly how the crystal worked; it seemed to have a mind of it's own, but it never beeped for anything outside of a certain radius. LazyTown seemed to be what it registered as it's 'territory', and if there was trouble anywhere it town in would let him know without fail.

The only exception to this rule was Glanni. He could be miles away in another town and if he was in real trouble the crystal would beep and Íþróttaálfurinn would know where he was. He didn't know why this was the case, and he was always trying not to examine the fact too closely. It felt significant in a way he wasn't sure he knew how to process.

The crystal was still beeping when he set the balloon down outside of a dingy bar in MayhemTown. He hadn't considered that Glanni would come back to here, not after what had happened last time. If Íþróttaálfurinn hadn't been worried about him before he was now. He thought of fluorescent lights and too clean sheets and the feel of Glanni's blood on his hands. He shivered, and walked towards the bar.

There was a very brutal fight in progress, and as he stepped inside lo and behold, Glanni was smack dab in the middle of it. Íþróttaálfurinn was just in time to stop a heavy set man with a broken bottle make a jab at Glanni's face with it. He tackled him to the ground, wrenching the bottle away from him. Unfortunately, this only seemed to excite the other brawlers, and chaos continued to reign rampantly for the next few minutes. He caught another glimpse of Glanni amidst the see of flailing limbs and broken glass but lost track of him almost immediately. He winced as a man with a baseball bat took a gleeful swing at another patron. Soon however, people seemed to realise just who it was that was caught up in the middle of the fight, and his presence started to cause people to disperse. He watched as several customers who were at each others throats moments ago settled back down into their seats as if nothing had happened. MayhemTown was _weird_.

He looked around, but Glanni was nowhere to be seen, having disappeared amidst the chaos. He found him, after a moments search, huddled up on the roof, face drawn and pale against a freshly formed bruise that had only narrowly avoided becoming a black eye. His lip was split, and he was scowling into the night air which was full of the noisy industrial hum of MayhemTown.

He startled as Íþróttaálfurinn approached, jumping to his feet. Íþróttaálfurinn's heart leapt.

“Sit down, please” Íþróttaálfurinn said, holding out his hands, not daring to try and touch him. “Seeing you fall from a height once was enough to last me a life time.” He tried for levity but he just sounded tired. He _was_ tired.

Glanni sat back, but said nothing. Íþróttaálfurinn took that at as least not an outright disapproval of his presence, so he sat down as well, leaving a reasonable amount of space between them. They sat in silence for a moment, with nothing but the sound of distant sirens and the clatter of clean up downstairs.

“What are you doing here?” Glanni asked finally, staring resolutely in front of him and not looking at his companion.

“Crystal,” Íþróttaálfurinn explained, tapping it.

Glanni scoffed. “Figures,” he muttered, sullenly.

Íþróttaálfurinn almost told him. That it had gone off for him. That he'd known it was Glanni. That he always knew. But he knew that Glanni wouldn't like it. It would feel like he had a hold on him somehow, even if it was something Íþróttaálfurinn couldn't explain or control, and he wouldn't jeopardise his chance at reconciliation by opening his big mouth and saying something stupid now.

The lampposts buzzed in his ears, casting an orange glow over the snow. The grey tower blocks of MayhemTown loomed distantly in front of them. That was what Íþróttaálfurinn hated about this place. It was so... _grey_. All of the buildings looked the same, and there were so many shadows and dark alleyways scattered about. He felt like Glanni could melt back into the darkness and he would lose him forever. The thought jumped into his head, causing his insides to lurch uncomfortably. He couldn't lose him. He _couldn't_.

“I'm sorry” he blurted out at last, startling them both. “For what happened. I know it wasn't you- I shouldn't have jumped to blame you.”

Glanni snorted derisively. “Why not? Most people do.” he spat, resentment stinging in his voice.

“I'm not most people,” he insisted. What was he supposed to _say_ to make this better? His mind did not supply him with any answers.

“No, you're the _flawless_ hero who rushes to the aid of us mere mortals,” said Glanni, gesturing dramatically and rolling his eyes.

Íþróttaálfurinn frowned. “That's not what I-”

“Just don't, OK?” Glanni interrupted harshly.

Íþróttaálfurinn fell silent.

Glanni was shivering. He wished he could keep him warm.

“Halla misses you,” he said suddenly, letting the thought out as soon as it crossed his mind. _I miss you_ , he thought, but was too afraid to say.

Glanni froze for a moment, sitting very still, staring unseeingly into the scruffy street below them.

“We never should have started this,” he said suddenly, after a long, tense moment. The flatness of his voice felt like a knife to Íþróttaálfurinn's throat, poised for the fatal blow.

“What?” he asked, even though he didn't want to know the answer. He knew it would be bad. He swallowed. His heart galloped in his chest, beating against his ribs.

“The game- the rules- any of it.” Glanni answered, brows furrowed, still refusing to look at the hero.

“I don't regret it,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, firmly, finally finding words that he _could_ say. True words, meaningful words.

“Well I do.” Glanni looked at him for the first time and Íþróttaálfurinn tried not to flinch at what he saw there.

He looked so _tired_ and _worn_ and Íþróttaálfurinn wanted nothing more than to reach for him, to keep him, to hold on tight to this infuriating and beautiful creature that held his attention in a way that no one else did. But he knew he couldn't hold on if Glanni didn't let him. He would fight him every step of the way. It was just the way things were.

After a moment Glanni stood, and Íþróttaálfurinn felt himself go tense, chest tight with apprehension, muscles coiled. Waiting for the final blow.

“I'm not playing it anymore.” He turned to leave. Íþróttaálfurinn's heart sank.

“Glanni- wait- ” He reached out, desperately, he wanted him to stay, he needed him to, he-

“Don't touch me.” Glanni said, cold and hard and black as ice, shifting out of Íþróttaálfurinn's reach.

“I'm sorry you couldn't trust me,” he whispered, desperate and thin in the cold air between them, hand still outstretched.

Something flickered over Glanni's eyes, before he reigned it in, going cold once more.

“That's the problem,” he said. “I did trust you.”

He climbed down off the roof and out of sight, disappearing just as Íþróttaálfurinn had feared he would. Íþróttaálfurinn did not move for a long time, and when he did he felt as if the slightest movement might break him apart.

\---

_Good. You do not deserve the happiness he would bring you. You do not deserve happiness at all._

\---

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, Tusk wasn't even supposed to have any dialogue. But that seemed like he was a bit too one dimensional, even for a character that only existed to flesh out the rest of the plot, so I gave him a few more scenes and now I'm very attached to him :')  
> I tried to name Ottó Ósannindi in typical Latibaer tradition: Ottó/Otto means 'wealth' or 'fortune' and if google is to be trusted Ósannindi means 'falsity'.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the comments! Particularly on the last chapter, which I had been looking forward to posting. I apologise for not replying, I always mean to but then I never know what to say. I read and appreciate them all very much though! We're almost at the end of this fic, but fear not! I already have copious amounts of notes for sequels.

He skulked miserably through the snow, hunched against the cold. He hadn't worn the expensive stolen coat to the Arrow, that was just  _asking_  for trouble, and it was a  _nice_  coat; he wanted to hold onto it. He should feel better after his conversation with Íþróttaálfurinn, and instead he feels worse. Looking at him had hurt more than a knife in to the gut. Glanni should know. Still, it had been the right thing to do, he was sure; to put an end to things. He wouldn't have to see Íþróttaálfurinn anymore. He could get on with his life like nothing had ever happened.

Paranoia prickled along the back of his neck. The snow looked red beneath his feet and he blinked the illusion away. He closed his eyes, sighing shakily. He heard footsteps in the snow behind him. He refused to turn around,  _refused_ -

“Oi, Glæpur!”

He jumped, squeaking, and almost losing his balance on the snowy ground. It was Tusk, sporting bloody knuckles and and even bloodier bat.

“Where'd you disappear to?” he asked.

Glanni scowled at him. “See, this is why I hate the Arrow,” he said, gesturing to his face. “Now I'm going to have to spend extra time covering this up for the job.”

“Oh come on, it's not that bad! Who doesn't love a good bar fight every now and then!”

Glanni continued to scowl.

“Alright, alright” Tusk held up his hands. “You gonna let me in on this plan of yours or what?”

“That depends, are you going to do what I tell you? I don't want anyone messing this up,” Glanni said tersely.

“Scouts honour,” Tusk grinned.

“Come on then,” he muttered, heading back in the direction of Tusk's hideout.

Going against Ósannindi was a monumentally stupid thing to do, and it was exactly why Glanni was doing it. If he pulled this off the world was not only his oyster, it was any mollusc he damn well wanted it to be.

Glanni knew a lot about the criminal goings on of all the towns. A lifetime of experience in their seedy underbellies had ensured he had a nice little cache of knowledge stored away in his cunning brain, and it was time to put it to use. Ósannindi's name appeared time and time again in the circles Glanni travelled in, and even more so in the ones he didn't.

Where the police went wrong was assuming that Ósannindi's business was just a front; it was not. In fact, a good deal of the packaging that his company did was legitimate, and it did business with other corporations all over the country. Where Ósannindi's real power came from, was his position in regards to the other towns. He could smuggle  _anything_. Someone in PrideTown needed drugs to sell to his high society clients for an extortionate price? Ósannindi could get them there for you. All you needed to do was put him in contact with the supplier of whatever it was you needed and he could get it in, or out, or anywhere else you needed it to be.

He was essentially a glorified courier service, but people underestimated the importance of such services all the time. Where were you left if one day the postman just didn't turn up? You were without your post, your parcels, all sorts of important things, and that was exactly why Ósannindi was so powerful; he had made himself indispensable to the all big name gangs and criminals and corrupt businesses in the area. Without him, organised crime all over the towns would grind to a halt.

And Glanni was going to cause that halt. Now  _that_  would be impressive.

Glanni had spent a week undercover as a rookie in Ósannindi's gang. In that time he had learned a great deal about the running of his empire; it was really amazing what you could learn by making yourself seem unimportant. It was also amazing what you could get from a little flirting, and Mr Ósannindi's personal secretary had been  _very_  receptive to his advances. He'd found out not only the location of the deposit box, but which members of the bank staff were in Ósannindi's pocket, what times the guards on duty switched shifts, and how he liked his coffee.

Pairing this with all the bits and pieces he'd gleaned from Ósannindi's business partners over the years and Glanni had more than enough dirt on him to get him taken down, potentially dragging some big names from other towns down with him.

If this went wrong his kneecaps were in for it, and that was if he got off lightly. If this went right, he'd have a decent amount of money, Mr Ósannindi safely behind bars, Mr Ósannindi's personal affects to pick and choose from, and a reputation befitting of the master criminal he was. He'd be killing a whole flock of birds with one well aimed stone. He just had to pull it off first.

He explained all of this to Tusk as they sat on the ripped and tattered sofa in his current hideout. He stared at him in wide-eyed fascinated horror the entire time, and when he was finished he said: “You're mad as a box of frogs, you know that?”

“Well you don't have to get involved,” Glanni sniffed.

“No, no, I'm in,” Tusk assured him. “Ósannindi's a stuck up bastard and I hate him, I'd be glad to see him go. He thinks he owns the place, but I guarantee he wouldn't last 5 minutes on his own in this city.” He prodiced a can of beer from somewhere and took a long drink. “You though,” he said pointing at him, can still in hand. “You do alright for yourself.”

Glanni frowned at him. “What are you on about?” he said irritably. This was straying too much into friendly conversation territory for his liking. They were supposed to be talking  _business_.

“Look Glæpur, I don't really trust you. I've heard stories, you've got a reputation, but that doesn't mean I don't  _like_  you. I like your style; you're one of us. You know this city, I mean  _really_  know it. And you've got your shit together for this job.”

In truth Glanni felt like he was losing his grip but he'd never let that stop him before and he wasn't about to now. He said nothing and continued to stare at Tusk blankly. Tusk didn't seem to really notice. He finished the beer and crumpled the can in one hand, throwing casually behind him.

“Anyway, my point is that you've got  _style_. You've caused trouble for tons of rich and pompous assholes and I  _respect_  that.”

Well yes, Glanni thought, because they had money and he had wanted it. Tusk seemed to be labouring under the misapprehension that he was some sort of rebel or anarchist. Glanni didn't correct him.

“So if you're sure you can take this guy down” he said, leaning forward and looking at Glanni seriously. “Count me in.” He grinned and his teeth glinted in the dim light, he stuck out his hand and wiggled his fingers expectantly. “Deal?”

Glanni considered, lips pursed.

“Deal,” he said.

\---

Íþróttaálfurinn was at his wits end. It had been very late when he'd returned to LazyTown, but sleep had not come easily to him, when it had come at all. He woke up feeling like his bones had turned to iron and it took all of his strength to haul himself up to face the day.

He caught the kids shooting him concerned looks all morning but couldn't quite bring himself to care. He'd lost Glanni, he was sure. All because he was too stupid to just open his mouth and tell him that he-

That he liked him. That he cared. That the game hadn't mattered; Glanni had.

The flowers sat in their beds as usual and he stared unseeingly at them after the kids had departed. Íþróttaálfurinn felt the irrational urge to tear them out of the ground. Like it was their fault somehow.

He jumped, feeling a small, gloved hand slip into his own. He hadn't even noticed he wasn't alone.

“He'll come back,” Solla said, firmly, looking up at him. “I know he will.”

He didn't have the heart to tell her that wasn't true.

\---

Glanni was getting used to the dreams now. He dreamt of falling from the basket, but instead of breaking all of his bones on the ground it was like he was being engulfed in icy water, and there were flowers all around him that withered and died before his eyes. And then came the running. He didn't know what he was running from. But he ran and ran until his lungs burned and the air hummed and there was an ache in his side- and then he woke up. The after image of blood and snow still inside his head. And he would still be cold.

\---

_You are such a selfish creature. You could give so much but you do nothing but take and take and take. You do not deserve the things that are given you._

\---

He had to admit, the Razorbacks were doing a great job. The rampant destruction they were causing was pretty impressive. Glanni was currently 'cowering' with the rest of the hostages while the gang upturned yet another desk just for the sake of it.

The guards were tied up in a heap on the floor, wiggling ineffectually. Tusk was sitting on one of them, watching the proceedings with glee, and waiting for the rest of the gang to finish forcing their way into the vaults downstairs; there was not a door on this planet that the Razorbacks could not force their way through.

They were intimidating, and MayhemTown Bank was full of very rich people who would take great offence to such hoodlums stealing their money. For all their brute strength the Razorbacks were small time. They got into barfights and threw bricks through windows more than anything else. The only things they ever organised were poker games. The police would spare minimal effort in trying to chase them down and recover the money, paying it just enough attention to soothe the irate bankers and bank-ees, before devoting their time to more big time criminals. Like Ósannindi.

“We're in Boss!” Henchman #2 called at last.

Tusk stood, clapping his hands together briskly. “Alright then! Time to get this show on the road!” He turned to the cowering group, pretending to look them over.

“You,” Tusk said, grabbing Glanni roughly as they'd planned. “With me, the rest of you sit tight and don't try anything, or four-eyes gets it.” He waved his bat helpfully, just in case they didn't get the picture.

Glanni whimpered appropriately as he was 'dragged' from the room. As soon as they were out of sight Tusk released him, pushing him in the direction of the vaults.

“We've got 5 minutes, get going!”

Glanni let them into the room, keying in the code for the door, which had been alarmingly easy to acquire, and slipped inside, leaving Tusk hovering at the entrance.

He withdrew the set of keys he had swiped during the confusion earlier and set to work.

Ósannindi, like most poweful people, had control issues. He had to know where all his money was going, what his employees were doing, what his business partners were doing, his enemies, everyone. And of course everyone he dealt with was the same. Because the major drawback to working with other people was  _trust_  . In Ósannindi's line of work only a fool would put all of their trust in another person. This meant that both parties had to keep records of things, just so no one got double, triple, or even quadruple crossed. Because of course,what they all really cared about, was their  _money_. A verbal contract was just no good for them; they needed everything noted down in neat, illicit little figures. You might think that smuggling wouldn't leave a paper trail but it did; you just hat to know where to look. And Glanni knew where to look.

The best place to hide something was where no one would look, and that was exactly what Ósannindi had done. He unlocked the first box and opened it. As he suspected it contained a number of files. Most of them were legitimate documents kept for posterity, he knew, but there was one little file in almost every draw, hidden in plain sight...

That creeping anxiety danced up his spine and threatened to cloud his brain. He pushed it aside. He had a job to do. But then again, nothing focused the mind like stress. If anything it was actually improving his performance; he hadn't had such an air tight scheme in years.

Ignoring the pounding of his heart he rifled through the files, looking for names or numbers or locations that matched the mental list he had accumulated over the years. He found the names of art forgers in LiarTown, of drug dealers in PrideTown, even money launderers in GreedyTown. He noted down their locations in the files and moved on to another box. He didn't even need to take the files out of the vault, he just had to make sure he had enough information to send the police in the right direction. An anonymous tip off. They'd shut off all the cameras; no one would know he'd even been in here. When the police turned up they would be so busy with the destruction and robbery they wouldn't be any the wiser of the real reason they had been there.

He worked quickly had made his way through perhaps half of the boxes when Tusk spoke again.

“Times up Glæpur, me and the gang have gotta be out in about 8 minutes.”

He shut the box with a snap locked it safely back up, and then slipped out again, leaving no evidence he was ever in there to begin with. He turned to head back upstairs but Tusk stopped him.

“Hold it, we need to make this more convincing.”

He plucked Glanni's glasses off his face and dropped them, crushing them with the heel of his very heavy boot. He handed them back to Glanni, who took them between his thumb and forefinger.

“Thanks,” he said drily.

Tusk grinned wickedly. “You're welcome.”

Tusk escorted him back upstairs and shoved him back with the other hostages, who fawned over him when he made a show of crying.

Two hours later the Razorbacks had cleared out with a sizeable sum, and a decent amount of property damage under their belts. Glanni was giving the police a simpering account of what had happened, complete with false name, address, age, occupation (he was good at details, when he remembered to be). When he was done, he slipped the keys back into the desk he'd pinched them from, and walked out of the bank. About 3 streets away he slid into an alley and took of the suit, dumping it, and the glasses, and the briefcase down the sewers. The notes he'd taken were tucked safely into his catsuit. He let out a shaky breath and kept walking.

So far, so good. Now all he had to do was to send some letters.

\---

“Please,” Íþróttaálfurinn whispered. “Please, what is it, how can I hep you?” He was standing on the mountain once more, calling out desperately to the god that had saved Glanni's life. He didn't know what else to do. Still, Flowers on the Mountain did not speak to him. The air was heavy and silent around him. He didn't  _understand_. Surely she had something to tell him? Why wouldn't she answer? Had he done something wrong? He sat on the mountain for a long time, and did not move even after the cold began to seep into his bones. The sun began to set. It was the stillest he could ever remember being.

\---

“It's done,” Glanni said, slipping into the empty seat next to Tusk.

They were back in the Arrow, much to Glanni's chagrin.

Tusk nodded.

“Now we wait,”

Right about now Ósannindi's would be receiving a note saying that someone had taken some files from his personal vault, and they were sure he would pay handsomely to get them back, just in case the police to happened to come across them...

He knew Ósannindi would never actually pay to get the documents back of course, even if he had actually stolen them. He would never give in to blackmail, but he didn't need to, because the police would be receiving an anonymous tip about the location of some  _very_  incriminating evidence.

Ósannindi wouldn't even be able to risk checking his vault- the police would still be all over the bank after the robbery. It was as foolproof as plans got, really.

“How do you know this'll work?”

“If he has one weakness, it's pride; there's no way he'll stand for blackmail, he'll be so busy looking for whoever sent the note to realise the police are on their way. His resources will be scattered, the police will arrest him, and that'll be that.”

Glanni stared at the snow falling outside the windows (by some miracle the owner had actually replaced them). He couldn't wait for this to be over. He'd be able to stop looking over his shoulder every five minutes, and he'd be able to get a decent nights sleep, and he wouldn't have to think about that bouncing fool and muscles and his stupid muscles and his soft eyes that made Glanni feel like he  _cared_. Just a couple more days, and he'd have won, it'd all be over.

Tusk nudged him none too gently with a steel toed boot.

“You alright there Glæpur?”

He startled, knocking over his glass.

“Yes! Yes, I'm fine.”

“Not getting cold feet on me are you?” Tusk said, squinting at him.

“No!” Glanni snapped, nerves stretched far to thin for that sort of statement. There was no going back now, even if he'd wanted to.

“Alright, just asking.”

“So, once he's taken care of we get to raid his house, yeah?” Tusk asked, eyes sparkling with the promise of future destruction.

“That's the idea, yeah,” he said, staring out of the window once more. He shivered. Just a little longer. Then things would be OK.

\---

_It will not bring you happiness. Nothing will. Not anymore._

\---

Just a day later Glanni watched Ósannindi being shoved into the back of a police car. He'd made quite the scene; if the police hadn't already suspected him they definitely would now. At least half of his gang got arrested with him and a good deal more were detained until they could figure out where they fit into this mess. The police would have their hands full for a long time yet.

It was over. Well, almost.

 

Tusk laughed, clapping Glanni on the shoulder. “You're alright Glæpur! I hereby make you an honorary Razorback. I'll get you a jacket and everything if you like,” he sauntered into the living room, and promptly put his bat through the television, which sparked satisfyingly.

 They were standing in Ósannindi's mansion, and they were free to do whatever they liked with it. The Razorbacks were running wild, now up to speed with the scheme, and had already destroyed several pieces of expensive furniture. Someone threw a bear skin rug over the banister, which clipped the chandelier making it sway dangerously. The house was full to bursting with tacky and expensive things, and Glanni could have anyone of them that he liked. It was all his. All he had to do was take it.

He stood, staring at the floor in front of him. He felt no different. All that work, and he hadn't even enjoyed it. It had meant nothing, in the end. He stood for a long time, letting the emptiness of the room press down upon him. That desolate loneliness swelled around him once more. Tightening his throat and crushing his lungs. What difference had it made? What difference did  _any_  of it make?

He was alone as ever, except for-

He turned, leaving the house untouched, all the expensive things inside it, the money that was probably hidden away in some personal safe, the fancy clothes that would be upstairs, he wanted none of it.

“Glæpur?” Tusk called after him. “Hey! Glanni? Where you going?”

He did not reply.

He knew where he needed to be.

 


	11. Chapter 11

Íþróttaálfurinn was once again awoken by the thump of someone climbing into the basket. He was barely sleeping as it was lately, and even the softest noise would have woken him. The horrible feeling of deja vu lurched inside of him, but his crystal wasn't going off, so he forced the feeling back down, trying to calm himself. He tried not to think of how Glanni's blood had felt spilling over his hands.

It had started to rain sometime during the night, and it drummed rhythmically on the tarp as he lay in the darkness.

He waited tensely. He knew who it was. He always knew. He felt the blanket lift and something dripping wet and cold slipped into his bed.

“I tried so hard to stay away from you, you know,” a voice whispered shakily.

Íþróttaálfurinn hoped this wasn't a dream.

“But I think... I think I'm always going to come back to you. I don't think I can stop myself,” the voice continued, wretchedly.

He couldn't see Glanni's face in the dark, but he was there, next to him, not quiet touching, hovering just within reach. Íþróttaálfurinn wanted so, so badly to reach out to him- but he didn't. He didn't dare speak. He almost didn't dare breathe.

“And you know?” Glanni went on shakily. “You're the only one who keeps coming back to me. I'm not sure what that means.”

Íþróttaálfurinn licked his lips, finally finding his voice. “It means I care about you.” It was something he should have said months ago. Something he never should have let Glanni doubt.

Glanni choked out a laugh, a broken sound that was almost lost in the rush of rain around them.

“I don't know what that _means_ ,” he whispered, and Íþróttaálfurinn couldn't- he _couldn't_ -

He reached out, taking Glanni in his arms- and Glanni let him.

“Glanni, you're _freezing!_ ” he hissed.

He giggled hysterically. “Tell me about it.”

He pressed his cold face into Íþróttaálfurinn's neck, clinging to him. “Don't let them find me,” he whispered, sounding small and scared and not at all like the Glanni that Íþróttaálfurinn knew.

“Don't let who find you? Glanni? Are you in trouble?” He tightened his hold, almost afraid he would simply disappear and he'd be alone once more with his regrets and aching heart.

“I don't _know_ ,” he whined pitifully. “Hide me, _please_ , they're coming, I know it,” he babbled, fingers curled tightly in Íþróttaálfurinn's shirt.

Something was wrong here, very wrong. Íþróttaálfurinn could feel it, deep inside, had been feeling it for days now, and only now with Glanni here in his arms did he realise that it had been about him all along.

“Glanni what's wrong? What happened?” he asked urgently.

“Nothings _wrong._ ” He buried his face in Íþróttaálfurinn's chest. “That's the _problem_. Everything should be fine, but it's _not_.”

Ithro didn't know what to say to that. He clung tighter to the cold body in his arms. “Please, tell me how I can help you?”

“I don't know if you _can_.”

Íþróttaálfurinn's heart _ached_.

“Come on,” he said briskly, eager for some sort of action. “You can't stay out here all night, you'll freeze- we need to get you inside.” He sat up, ignoring Glanni's protesting noise when he moved away from him. He raked around in the basket for the umbrella that Solla had once given him that he swore he would never need. He'd have to remember to thank her again for it.

“Inside where?” 

 

Glanni stood dripping in the hotel foyer as Íþróttaálfurinn pleaded with the owner to let him have a room just this once without paying, at least upfront.

She just smiled and waved him off, “Consider it done, dear, after everything you do to help this is the least I can do.” She handed him a key and he thanked her profusely, before steering a very dazed Glanni upstairs. When he opened the door he realised she had given them a room with a double bed. Oh. He glanced at Glanni but he was still staring at nothing. The sleeping arrangements were the last thing on his mind. He hadn't said anything for a while now, and Íþróttaálfurinn wanted so badly to know what was going on inside his head. Well, it would have to wait.

He herded Glanni into the bathroom figuring a shower was probably the best way to warm him up. He sank heavily to the floor as he heard the sound of the water running from behind the door. He stared at the inoffensive cream coloured walls and tried to get his thoughts in order. Glanni had come _back_. He couldn't believe it. He was getting another chance. His eyes began to sting and he heaved in a steadying breathe. Now was not the time to be getting upset. He had to show Glanni that he _cared_ , that he could _trust_ him. Íþróttaálfurinn didn't think he could bear it if he let him slip away again; he'd barely coped the last few days, he couldn't do that all over again. He had to figure out what was going on here. He had to do _something_. He sat outside the bathroom while Glanni showered, thinking very, very hard about what he was about to do.

 

Sometime later Íþróttaálfurinn heard the click of the lock and he scrambled to his feet as Glanni emerged. He looked haggard, but at least more alert than he had before. He was wearing one of the hotel bathrobes which was just a little too short for him, and was rubbing his hair dry with a towel. He did not look at Íþróttaálfurinn, instead walking to the bed and collapsing onto it face first. Íþróttaálfurinn cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Uh...how are you feeling?” he ventured, not really sure what this situation called for. He resisted the urge to start doing sit ups.

“Like shit,” came the muffled reply.

Íþróttaálfurinn swallowed. He could do this. It was important. He could do this.

“Glanni I-” he coughed, willing his nerves to settle. _Stop stallin_ g, he scolded himself. “I have something to tell you. Something important.”

“Can't it wait?” Glanni whined, rolling over and pulling the duvet into a heap around himself, already receding back into his emotionally unavailable self.

“No, it's important,” Íþróttaálfurinn insisted sitting gingerly on the edge of the bed. He needed to do it now before he thought better of it. He jiggled his leg nervously. “It's something I haven't told anyone else, not even the kids.”

“Well, spit it out” Glanni said, huddled in the blankets like an angry cat, hair sticking up in all directions, and refusing to look Íþróttaálfurinn directly in the eye.

“OK,” he took a deep breath and reached for his hat-

The lights went out. Íþróttaálfurinn swore, jumping to his feet.

“Wait, Wait- OK just-” he knocked several things over in the dark scrambling for the candles he'd spotted on the dresser earlier. “Give me a second,” he said, voice strained. His hands shook as he tried to open the box of matches.

“I don't need you to- _do_ anything, or-or whatever” Glanni said, quiet and awkward,just as Íþróttaálfurinn finally got hold of a match.

He struck it, making a minute point of light in the dark room. “No,” he agreed, lighting the candles one by one and turning to Glanni. “But I want to.”

“Well get over here and do it then,” Glanni huffed, without any real bite, and Íþróttaálfurinn could read the underlying nervousness in his voice. This was new territory- for both of them. This wasn't about the game anymore. It was just them.

Íþróttaálfurinn sat opposite Glanni on the bed, who blinked at him owlishly in the faint light. The flame guttered, sending ominous long shadows scuttling along the walls.

“Well?” Glanni demanded impatiently.

He took a deep breath and pulled off his hat. Glanni's eyes widened, glinting in the candle light. He stared, mouth slack.

He stared. And stared. And _stared_.

Íþróttaálfurinn cleared his throat, fiddling with his hat to give his hands something to do. “I- uh- I'm an elf.” he offered, when Glanni didn't say anything.

Glanni continued to not say anything, gaping silently at his ears. Íþróttaálfurinn was getting nervous. He fiddled with the crystal, desperate for some sort of movement, but too nervous to make any big gestures. Perhaps he should have piked a better time to tell him. Íþróttaálfurinn never was very good at planning things out. Doubt began to seep into his mind. “I mean-” he went on when Glanni still didn't respond. “I don't know what you know about elves but-”

Glanni reached forward and _pulled_.

“Ow!”

“They're real,” he breathed still staring. He tugged Íþróttaálfurinn's ear again.

“Of course they're real!! Ow! Let go!” He swatted at Glanni's hand.

“Well, I was just checking,” Glanni said huffily, releasing Íþróttaálfurinn's abused ear.

There was a tense, awkward silence, filled only by the sound of rain outside.

“So, elves, magic, that sort of thing...?” Glanni ventured weakly.

“All real.”

“Oh...”

It pattered against the glass. The candles flickered.

“Why...why did you decide to tell _me_?” Glanni asked, still looking dazed, staring vacantly at some indeterminate point above Íþróttaálfurinn's left shoulder.

“Because I owed it to you,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, shrugging.

Glanni looked at him sharply, snapping out of whatever reverie he had been in.

“No you did _not_ -”

“I _did,_ ” Íþróttaálfurinn insisted before he could say any more. “I wanted you to trust me, but I never did anything to- to show that you _could_. So this is it, this is me- making a- a gesture.”

He ran a tired hand through his hair, staring unseeingly at the bed and Glanni's bare legs in front of him. There was something bizarrely domestic about seeing him with no shoes on. Even more so than the numerous times he had seen him without make up. It made his chest hurt. He tried not to blush.

“Look- I'm not good with this sort of thing- with talking about my feelings, I mean-”

“Me neither, let's not bother.”

“Glanni _please_ , I'm trying to- what I'm _saying,_ is that I should have done more than just- follow you around and expect that that would somehow get you to trust me, or hell, even _like_ me-”

“I like it when you follow me around,” Glanni said quietly, the smallest smile playing across his face. Or perhaps it was just a shadow.

The candles danced, sending the room jumping around them once more. Glanni's eyes shone gold in the glow of the little flames. He looked beautiful. Íþróttaálfurinn smiled, feeling quiet suddenly, that he could do anything. Anything at all, any number of impossible things, so long as Glanni was there with him. For once the words came easily to him and he let them slip from his mouth with barely a second thought.

“I like you, Glanni, and I _wanted_ to tell you. I wanted you to know who I am, so we can- I don't know, start again, or at least try to.”

Glanni considered this. He stared at his hands and caught his lip worriedly between his teeth. Íþróttaálfurinn tried not to stare. He failed.

“OK,” he said, after a long moment. He nodded to himself. “That's- OK, I can deal with that.”

“Are you going to tell me what's wrong?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, before realising this was probably the wrong thing to say. But his nerves still demanded he move this conversation on, that he _fix_ things. Maybe there was nothing to fix. Still, he was _worried_.

“Why would anything be wrong?” Glanni shrugged, affecting an air of false nonchalance.

“Come on, this isn't like you, Glanni-”

“How would you know?” he hissed, face twisting in the flickering light. “You don't know _anything_ about me.” Just like that he was back to facing the same man who had sat in that cell almost two years ago. Íþróttaálfurinn wasn't going to lose him now.

He took Glanni's face in his hands, mindful of the fading bruise, relieved at how much warmer he felt after his shower.

“I _know_ you Glanni,” he said intently. “I might not know where you've been, or where you're going, or- or what your favourite colour is, but I do _know_ you.”

Glanni swallowed, looking pale and scared, and exactly how Íþróttaálfurinn felt. He swallowed, nerves humming, keenly aware that he was on the verge of saying something important.

“And if you'll let me, I would like to know you more.” The implication hung heavy in the air between them. This was a perfect opportunity for Glanni to derail the conversation; to play it off, to start flirting just like they always did. But he didn't

He didn't take his eyes off Íþróttaálfurinn, and after an agonising pause he heaved in a staggered, shaking breath. “Don't treat me like some sort of-pet project, some-charity case-” he choked out, sounding pained in a way that Íþróttaálfurinn couldn't bear.

Íþróttaálfurinn shook his head.“That's not what this is- I-I,” The words were there, in the back of his throat, they just wouldn't come out. They were too big and he was too scared to let them out. If he said them it would make them true, irrevocably and irreversibly. He thought suddenly of apple cider and the warmth of another mouth on his.

“I _like_ you Glanni, I do, I want you to be OK. Whatever I have to do to prove that to you, just tell me and I'll _do it,_ ” he said, hushed and desperate. He would do anything for this man before him, anything at all, if only he was given the chance to.

Glanni's eyes were glistening, but still he didn't look away.

“Please Glanni,” his hands were still on Glanni's face, fingers cupping his jaw, thumbs gently tracing his cheekbones. “Talk to me? I know I haven't earned it but- trust me?”

Glanni sighed, closing his eyes covering Íþróttaálfurinn's hands with his own. They were shaking, ever so slightly. Or perhaps Íþróttaálfurinn was the one who has shaking. Perhaps it didn't matter.

“Like I said; I did trust you, that was the problem- I don't trust anyone, but you-” he licked his lips nervously and his fingers curled tightly around Íþróttaálfurinn's own. “You broke me down- pulled me apart the way no one else ever has and I- I don't know what to _do_ ” he said, voice falling to a hushed whisper. “You make me feel like I'm _worth_ something.”

“Every one is worth something Glanni,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, whispering too, afraid that if he spoke too loudly whatever delicate thing was happening here would break and he wouldn't be able to put the pieces back together.

Glanni flicked his tongue over his lips, looking scared and beautiful in the dark

“What am I worth?” he whispered, _implored_.

Íþróttaálfurinn pressed their foreheads together, cradling Glanni's head in his hands, fingers brushing over his rounded ears, trailing lightly through his cropped hair.

“ _Everything._ ”

Glanni stuttered out a laugh, a choked but not unhappy sound.

“You can't do things by half can you?” he asked, a little wetly, and Íþróttaálfurinn was relieved to hear him sound more like himself. He grinned.

“Not my style.”

Íþróttaálfurinn moved his hands down, letting them slip to Glanni's shoulders, down to rest lightly on his chest. The robe was soft beneath his fingers and moved gently as Glanni breathed. He curled his fingers into the collar of the robe, tugging minutely. Glanni leaned forward, just an inch. Íþróttaálfurinn closed the gap. He kissed him, fierce and bright like knives and snowflakes, and Glanni kissed back, one hand caught gently in the front of Íþróttaálfurinn's shirt, like a fragile anchor in the storm around them. There was so much happening inside of him that Íþróttaálfurinn thought he might burst, but god, it would be worth it, just for this one moment. They pulled apart, leaving just inches between them. Neither of them let go.

“No mistletoe this time,” Glanni breathed. “What's your excuse?”

This wasn't how Íþróttaálfurinn had expected this to go. They weren't even friends, let alone-

But here they were. He thought about Christmas, about Solla and her Valentine's card, about stolen moments in his basket where no one else was there to see them. Perhaps this is where they'd been going all along. And Íþróttaálfurinn didn't regret it in the slightest.

“I'll think of one later,” he said easily, thinking of conversations for another time, for daylight and daybreak and any other times they pleased.

Glanni laughed, soft and smooth in the candle light. He kissed him again, soft and insistent, teeth catching on lips.

“Don't stop chasing me,” Glanni whispered, his hands in Íþróttaálfurinn's hair.

“What?”

“That's what you can do for me. Wherever I go, promise me you'll follow. _Promise_.”

He pulled Glanni close, feeling the shift of his bones beneath the damp robe, the feel of his fingers on his back.

“ _I promise_.”

“I can't believe you're an _elf_ ,” Glanni said suddenly.

Oh yes. That had happened, hadn't it? They had jumped so many emotional hurdles tonight Íþróttaálfurinn hadn't been able to keep track of them all. Give him real hurdles any day.

“Am I dating an elf? Is that what's happening here?” Glanni continued, more to himself than to Íþróttaálfurinn.

Íþróttaálfurinn swallowed, throat suddenly dry. He'd thought they could have left this until the morning. He'd hoped they could, because in all honestly he didn't know how much more he could take right now.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, hoping his voice sounded steadier than it felt.

“What I want, is to _sleep,_ ” he whined, falling back on the bed and tugging Íþróttaálfurinn with him. He stared up at the ceiling. “We're going to have to have a _conversation_ in the morning, aren't we?”

“I'm afraid so.”

He sighed, reaching down to tug the blanket over himself and getting comfortable.

“Blow the candles out, will you?”

Íþróttaálfurinn fell asleep that night with Glanni in his arms, Íþróttaálfurinn's head pressed gently between his shoulder blades. He felt the swell of Glanni's ribs beneath his fingers as he breathed, in and out, in and out. He felt the comforting weight of Glanni's arm resting lightly over his own and thought that in all of the world there was no where else he would rather be.

\---

_You're ruining it, you're ruining it, YOU'RE RUINING IT-_

\---

Íþróttaálfurinn awoke with a start, jolting upright. His skin prickled with unease. He reached out to Glanni- only to find he wasn't there. He was standing in the middle of the room, staring at nothing. He was also naked, and under different circumstances Íþróttaálfurinn would have been quiet distracted by this, but there was a pressing, forbidding, feeling to the room that had him instantly on edge. The shadows seemed impossibly dark and the room felt far far smaller than it actually was.

“Glanni?”

He did not respond, and the sickly feeling of unease in Íþróttaálfurinn's stomach roiled and flared. _Something's wrong, something's wrong._

Glanni turned then, and Íþróttaálfurinn saw the thin scar that reminded him of the hum of fluorescent lights and the smell of pennies, of the days he spent squeezed into an uncomfortable plastic chair in a sterile little room. And then he saw blood. Dark and glistening, a small circular wound just below Glanni's ribs. It bled sluggishly, cutting tracks across his pale skin, like tributaries down a mountain.

Íþróttaálfurinn's heart seized in his chest.

“Glanni what-”

A thin line appeared down Glanni's pale chest, stretching all the way down to his stomach, and blood began to spill, and spill and _spill_ -

Íþróttaálfurinn jumped up, reaching for him-

-the power came back on, lights flickering to life overhead.

And it was gone, just like that. Banished with the shadows like the cobwebs of a bad dream. There was just Glanni- looking pale and confused in the middle of the room. Not a drop of blood in sight, the shadows shrunk backwards revealing the neutral inoffensive décor.

Glanni blinked, rubbing his eyes and looking around. “What am I-?”

“I think you were sleep walking.” Íþróttaálfurinn said hastily, heart still battering itself against his ribs in a jarring staccato rhythm.

“...why am I naked?”

After Íþróttaálfurinn had put Glanni back in his borrowed robe and ushered him back into bed and turned off the light he stayed awake for a long time, willing his heart to stop racing. He had no idea what he'd just seen, whether it had been his own imagination, a hallucination brought on by- by stress or. Something else.

Glanni made a contented noise in his sleep. Íþróttaálfurinn pulled him closer. Glanni was _here_ , with him. He was safe. Whatever had just happened, it could wait until morning.

\---

_stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ithro: we should talk about the plot  
> glanni: we could make out instead  
> ithro: shit u right


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to split the last two chapters up into 3 for pacing reasons. They're nearly done, so there is a good chance I'm going to get this finished today!

When Glanni woke up next morning it was to a clear head and the colour blue. Íþróttaálfurinn blinked at him, hair tousled endearingly from sleep. Glanni blinked back. He was suddenly keenly aware of everything that had happened last night, laid out in clinical clarity in his mind, now fully exposed in the hours of daylight. He was also keenly aware that Íþróttaálfurinn had his hand resting on Glanni's hip. And that their legs were tangled together. And that he was _warm_. This was, frankly, a lot to take in first thing in the morning.

They continued to look at each other for a moment longer. If neither of them said anything this was going to get awkward very fast.

“You've been awake ages watching me haven't you, you sentimental fool?” he said at last. The thought didn't scare him as much as he thought it would. In fact, he quite liked it. Oh God, he was in _deep_ wasn't he?

Íþróttaálfurinn laughed, leaning in and pressing a kiss to his temple. It alarmed Glanni how easy it was to let him do it, but it was dulled by the warmth around him and the broad hand that had slid up his side to rest over his ribs. He could move away, if he wanted. He didn't.

Hazy memories swam to the forefront of his mind. He frowned. “Did something happen last night? I remember being naked... why was I naked?”

Íþróttaálfurinn had that concerned puppy look that he did so well on his face. It was very strange to think that it was meant for him.

“I think you were sleep walking. Have you ever done that before?”

Glanni bristled, unnerved by the idea he might be doing things in his sleep he had no idea about. “Well I don't know, do I? I was _asleep_.”

Íþróttaálfurinn looked sheepish. “Ok. It's just, I thought I,” he paused awkwardly. “I thought I saw something but- maybe I was imagining things.”

“Saw what?” he asked impatiently.

“You- you were bleeding,” the elf (elf!) said, looking vaguely ill.

“I was, where?” He tried to examine himself without actually getting up, apparently not as concerned about this as Íþróttaálfurinn was. He was in a strangely good mood and he was _comfortable;_ if he wasn't dying, he wasn't going to bother getting up. And even if he was it would be a close thing.

“Well it just- disappeared when the lights came back on so-”

“Is this a magic thing?” he asked, suddenly suspicious. That little reveal had opened up many new and exciting possibilities to him that Glanni was absolutely not looking forward too. He had to admit though, that the pointed ears suited Íþróttaálfurinn, so that was a bonus.

“I don't _know_ ,” Íþróttaálfurinn frowned. “I think it's time we talked.”

“Oh _joy_ ,” Glanni grimaced, wiggling further back into his pillow.

“Maybe I was just- imagining things.” Íþróttaálfurinn said, rubbing his hand over Glanni's side absently. “ Because I was worried about you,” he admitted quietly.

An unpleasantly _pleasant_ feeling bloomed in Glanni's chest. _Oh_. It was one thing to have a vague, undefined awareness that Íþróttaálfurinn...cared about him, it was another to hear him state it so bluntly. His face felt hot. He hoped Íþróttaálfurinn didn't notice.

“Well, I feel _fine,”_ he said flippantly. “I didn't even have any dreams last night.”

“What dreams?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked sharply, the concerned look returning full force.

Oh. Wait. Glanni chewed his lip. He couldn't exactly think of a reason _not_ to tell Íþróttaálfurinn about his dreams- his nightmares, it was just his first instinct _not_ to. Force of habit. He didn't tell anyone _anything_. But maybe this would be a good place to start.

“Where I'm being chased,” he said at last, finally releasing the thought from the confines of his brain. “At least- it _feels_ like I am.”

Glanni was no stranger to paranoia, but the last week had been... _intense_ , to put it mildly. Only in the strange calm that had settled over him did he realise how _bad_ he had felt. For the first time he began to wonder if there wasn't more to it than he had originally thought. He tried to examine the dreams in the cold light of rational thought. It was odd, but in the cocoon of warmth beneath the duvet with another pleasantly warm body beside him Glanni couldn't quite remember how he had felt.

“Is that what you meant last night?” Íþróttaálfurinn asked, bringing him out of his thoughts. “When you said 'they' were coming?”

He nodded haltingly. “It's always snowing, but there are flowers. And blood,” he tacked on as an afterthought. There was always so much blood...

Íþróttaálfurinn sat up, looking suddenly serious. “What sort of flowers?”

Glanni blinked at him, trying to keep up. He didn't like having to keep up. “I don't know just... _flowers,”_ he said irritably. “Lie back down, you're making me cold.”

Íþróttaálfurinn ignored him. “On a mountain?”

“How did you know that?” He did _not_ like having to keep up.

Íþróttaálfurinn sprang out of bed so fast it was a wonder he didn't get whiplash.

“Come on, we have somewhere to be!” He hopped into his shoes and looked around for his hat while Glanni scowled at him from the bed. That was for too much movement for so early in the morning.

“I am not leaving this bed for at least a week,” he said decisively, rolling over and putting Íþróttaálfurinn's pillow over his head. Íþróttaálfurinn ripped the duvet off him. Glanni _growled_. Íþróttaálfurinn paid this no attention. He ran into the bathroom, grabbing Glanni's now dry clothes and throwing them at him.

“Come on, I'll explain on the way.”

Glanni didn't move.

“Come _on._ ” Íþróttaálfurinn tugged at the pillow, and Glanni finally sat up, smacking him in the face with it.

“I've never had someone be in such a hurry to get me into my clothes before,” he grumbled, climbing out of bed and starting to get dressed. Well at least it would mean they wouldn't have to talk about...their _relationship_ , or whatever, just yet.

\---

Íþróttaálfurinn felt better than he had for days. Glanni was back and he finally had an answer to thing that had been gnawing at his mind in his absence. The missing piece. It had been Glanni, all along. He was the one Flowers on the Mountain had been trying to talk to! No wonder Íþróttaálfurinn couldn't get her to answer. Perhaps it was because he was human, like the woman who had given her a name.

There was still snow on the ground, but it lay patchy and iced over thanks to the rain, and in all likelihood it would be gone in a day or so. Glanni's horribly impractical boots almost made him slip but Íþróttaálfurinn was there to steady him. As he helped Glanni climb reluctantly into the basket Íþróttaálfurinn's eyes wandered over the town square. The butcher is at his door with the deliveryman again. He'd forgotten about their altercation that day but they seemed to be in good terms now. But he did wonder...

He jogged over to him, leaving Glanni to sulk in the basket.

“Good morning Íþróttaálfurinn!” the butcher greeted as he saw him approach.

“Good morning! I trust everything is in order?” he said, indicating the delivery being unloaded from the van.

“Oh yes, fine, fine!” he said jovially, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“I was just wondering, the order that had to be returned, what was it?”

“Hm? Oh that! It was venison.”

 _Oh_.

 

“It was the deer!” he said, for perhaps the third time. “That's why I couldn't find her! They don't often take physical forms like that, but I don't know why she would want to destroy the gardens like that-”

Glanni wasn't really listening, lying in the basket trying to go back to sleep. He didn't understand half of what Íþróttaálfurinn was saying anyway.

The balloon was once again flying over the stretch of fields and farms that it had crossed two weeks ago. The snow lay in white patches, the grass peeking through beneath. There were no sheep this time; the farmers must still be keeping them inside. The mountain loomed blackly against the sky, and he could see Njáll's cottage off to the right, a little grey dot that was growing larger as they approached.

“-Maybe she was just trying to get our attention. I thought it was me she was trying to talk to, but it must have been you all along- You didn't see a deer while you were in MayhemTown did you?”

“No, I didn't. I only learned that magic was real last night, it's far too early to be thinking about spirits. Let me _sleep_.” He pulled Íþróttaálfurinn's blanket over his head.

“Glanni this is important! We have to find her, she's trying to tell us something, I know it!”

“Well, whatever it is, tell her I'm not interested.”

Íþróttaálfurinn rolled his eyes. Well, they would find out what she wanted soon enough.

Since he had left home he had tried not to think too closely about what he had left behind, and his village's own deity was one of those things. There were a lot of things he missed, but that was one of the ones he missed the most. It was always strange to him that humans worshipped things they couldn't see. For elves their deities were an everyday part of life, they did not need to pray and hope their gods could hear them; they could simply go and talk to them. Íþróttaálfurinn had talked to their deity often before he had left.

Maybe he could build Flowers on the Mountain a shrine, a proper one, if she would like that. Or a small temple. He could come and visit her; it must be lonely, if so few people visit her as Njáll said. And it would be another little thing, like the flowers the children planted for him, that would make him feel at home.

He set the basket down at the foot of the mountain and jumped out, bouncing impatiently as he waited for Glanni to clamber out after him. Glanni's feet had barely touched the ground before he grabbed his hand, trying to tug him forward.

Glanni didn't move.

“Glanni?”

“I don't like it here,” he said slowly, voice eerily calm. He pulled away from Íþróttaálfurinn and looked around. “This is where it happened.”

Something uneasy bubbled up inside Íþróttaálfurinn. He stared at Glanni, standing too still against the landscape around them.

“Glanni what's-”

“ _Stop it,_ ” Glanni said, in a voice that was not his own. “ _You're ruining_ everything.”

“Glanni-!” Íþróttaálfurinn reached for him-

There was a shiver in the air, a pop, and Glanni was gone. In his place was the sleek black deer from Goggi's camera footage. The one that had torn up the gardens. Íþróttaálfurinn stared, stock still, trying to get his brain to catch up with this impossible situation. The deer- _Glanni_ \- took off, heading for the mountain faster than Íþróttaálfurinn could blink. And without a second thought Íþróttaálfurinn gave chase. He had a promise to keep.

\---

_They will not catch me. Not again._

\---

Nothing about this was making any sense. Glanni _had_ been the one to tear up the gardens, but it hadn't _been_ him. Flowers on the Mountain was inside him, and Íþróttaálfurinn had never heard of _anything_ like that before. And to change his shape in such a way- even a spirit shouldn't have been able to do that, to bend his form the way Flowers on the Mountain had. He needed answers, but his first priority was to find Glanni. He would not lose him again. He _refused_.

He didn't know how long he had been chasing Glanni, but eventually he had to stop and catch his breath. He skin stung with the whip of the wind and he leaned over, hands on his knees, heaving air into his tired lungs. For perhaps the first time, he cursed the limitations of his own body. He was wasting time. He straightened up, ready to start running again, when something off to his right caught his eye. It was a weathered pile of rocks, leaning against part of the mountain. There was moss and lichen growing over it, and it looked as if it had been there for a long, long time.

It was a grave, he realised. _The_ grave. The one from Njáll's story. He placed his hand on it. It felt rough and cold beneath his fingers. This was where Flowers on the Mountain was born.

He closed his eyes, concentrating.

“Please,” he said “I'm listening.”

The mountain answered.


	13. Chapter 13

Someone was crying.

_Oh, don't cry, don't cry dear heart, please. I am here. I can hear you. Let me help. Just give me a name, dear heart, and I can help you._

She is born from compassion. She is a being of the meadows and the mountains, moved by the plight of the human heart. She gives and gives and gives and is glad of it, her only reward is helping people. It is all she needs. People come and go on her mountain, and she watches over them, takes care they do not come to harm. They bring her food and drink, gifts she cannot enjoy but appreciates nonetheless. The years pass by and the humans come and go, their short lives winking in and out around her. They seem so small to her and yet they fill her thoughts every day. She cannot abide their suffering, but she does not always understand.

She wants to understand. She wants to feel.

She gathers her magic, spinning it like wool, knitting bone and filling blood, and fashions herself a vessel. It takes so much of her strength but it is worth it. She laughs, deep inside, she can feel the cold and the heat of her breath, the blood in her veins, the breeze around her. She eats the food that has been left her, drinks the wine. She runs and the shadows shift across the snow which glows in the moonlight. She can feel snow under her feet. The stars look so different to her now.

She is a deer, running on the mountain. She watches the sun come up through her new eyes. It is beautiful, and so is she.

When morning comes there are humans on the mountain, those creatures she loves so dearly. They give chase to her, and it's a game, she's sure. She is Flowers on the Mountain and they love her. She knows this.

But they do not stop, and she is growing tired. The air hums with their arrows.

They are hunters, and they do not know her, they do not know that she is Flowers on the Mountain.

She is struck, once, twice.

There is blood on the snow and it is hers. Her body is dying but she is not, and her spirit cannot free itself from the blood and bone it has fashioned itself into. If this is what it is to be flesh she does not want it.

They cut her open. They eat her flesh and wear her hide. She is torn apart and she cannot put herself back together again. She does not feel, but she remembers. The mountain remembers.

But the humans do not. They forget her, and they forget her name. She is weak, so weak, no one remembers her name. There are no longer flowers on the mountain, no flowers by the grave.

Inch by inch she pulls herself back together, but she is still lost, still forgotten. She is alone for so long, so, so, long.

She does not know how long it has been. Time has ceased to have meaning for her, but today there is something different.

There is a creature above her, forgotten as she is, but he is wicked and selfish where she is good and kind.

But he loves and is loved, and he should not be _allowed_ this- he should not be allowed _anything_ , while she has suffered so. She who did nothing but give and give until there was no more of her left.

Spite and anger swells in her great heart, and she gathers al lof her strength, knocking him out of the sky. But oh! He is full of surprises! He has more power than he knows, and she will take it from him. She will take _everything_ from him.

She will dog his every step and follow him until he can no longer go on, just as she had that winter when she ceased to be Flowers on the Mountain.

_Run, little beast. Run, run, run._

 


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have arrived at the last chapter! Thank you for sticking with me this far while I tried to figure out exactly how this was going to go, and thank you for all of the comments, which genuinely kept me wanting to write this. I hope you have enjoyed it!

Íþróttaálfurinn lay gasping on the ground, head spinning with memories and emotions that were not his own. He thought he'd found the missing a pieces of the puzzle but it turned out he hadn't even known what puzzle he was putting _together_.

Magic, above all else, was _tricky_. It required _intent_ , and for a sentient being to use magic, to really use it, they had to know that they had it in the first place. And he _didn't_ know. Glanni wasn't _human_. Not entirely, anyway, and he had no idea about it. And she was using him. She had lost herself, her power and she was trying to take Glanni's. People hadn't forgotten about _her_ , but they had forgotten her _name_. She had forgotten her name. And names were powerful things, tied up with so much magic. In forgetting her name she had forgotten herself in the process and was using Glanni, taking it out on him. And Íþróttaálfurinn knew her name.

Íþróttaálfurinn did not have the magic to face even a weakened spirit like her; even a diminished god was still a god. He had only his heart and his words. Sometimes, these things are enough. In all the best stories they are, and that's what this was; a story. And he was going to decide the ending. Not her. Never her. Íþróttaálfurinn was not good with words, but for Glanni, he would talk and talk and never stop.

He would not let Glanni go. _He had a promise to keep._

“You shouldn't be here,” hissed a voice from behind him as he climbed to his feet, angry like a gale howling through the mountains.

He turned. Flowers on the Mountain was standing, arms clutching Glanni tightly. He hung limply in her grip, appearing to be asleep.

Íþróttaálfurinn could hardly look at her, without her name she was a being of the aether, an intangible thing comprised of magic and moonlight and belief. It was like looking at a bright void, a gap in the universe.

And he faced her, armed only with his heart and his words and his rage. How dare she. _How dare she_ , when Glanni had done nothing to wrong her. Íþróttaálfurinn had wanted to help her, would have worshipped her.

“Glanni has done nothing to you,” he said, finding his voice eerily calm in the chilled air. He could not look at her, so instead he looked at Glanni, remembering the feel of his hands in Íþróttaálfurinn's hair, the soft touch of lips. His hands curled into fists.

“That does not matter,” she hissed. “He is selfish and despicable. A rotten soul, the world would be better off without him.”

“I don't think that's true at all,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, still oddly calm in the face of this angry god. He thought of the story the mountain had told him, of how it felt to lie bleeding in the snow. He thought of Glanni's frightened face in the dark and how warm his blood had felt on his hands.

She was inconsequential. She was everything and nothing all at once, she was the meadows and trees and the flowers on the mountain, she was the beating heart of a rabbit and the silence of an owl's wing. She was a concept, an idea, a story with an unhappy ending. And she would not have him.

“You will not take him from me,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, and there was Power in the words the likes of which he had never known before. He stood against a God and was not afraid. She was nothing to him, not anymore.

She hissed at him again, like an angry rush of water, a river about to burst its banks. “Why do you want him, elf? A miserable, desperate creature, of what value you is he to you?”

“I love him.” The Truth slid so easily from his lips, and the words sang in the air. He wanted to say them a thousand times more. And he would.

She seethed. “You _love_ him? A beast such as this, and you _love_ him?”

“We're all beasts Spirit. And even beasts need to be loved. But you knew that didn't you?”

She flinched. “I was good, and I was beautiful,” she screeched, and if she were human she might have been crying.

“Yes you were. And just look at you now.” A cold vindictiveness like nothing Íþróttaálfurinn had ever felt seized him suddenly. She was not a god. She was just as flawed as the rest of them. Perhaps more so. “You do not love,” he said, words filled with venom.”You have lost the capacity to. You have forgotten what it was like to be flowers on the mountain. There is nothing _good_ left in you.”

She screamed like the roar of a waterfall. Íþróttaálfurinn was no deterred.

“That's why you tried to drive us apart wasn't it? You knew that I was making him happy. And you couldn't _stand_ it. You were _jealous_.”

“I could smash his body to pieces right now!” She shook Glanni in her grip, still he did not wake, and Íþróttaálfurinn's arms itched to take, to hold, to _love_.

“If you do that, I will not rest until I have destroyed you. I will hunt you, just as you were before, and I will end what is left of you.”

“You can do nothing to me!” she screamed, and the air around them seemed to waver. Still Íþróttaálfurinn did not falter.

“Those men that killed you, they did not do it out of spite- they were hungry and your flesh fed them, their children, they were cold and your hide warmed them. Give and take, that's what nature is. You should know that. You helped them live. If you kill Glanni now I will make sure you never live again.”

“You do not have such power! You are but one elf!” She was anxious, agitated, and the mountain itself seemed to shiver beneath their feet.

“Yes. But I'm very, very stubborn.” He almost thought he saw Glanni smile.

“What power could you possibly hold over me?” she demanded, frantic and angry and _alone_.

“Your name.”

\---

The woman knew she must move soon or risk sharing the same fate as her husband. Perhaps that would be best, she thought, as she wept. Her hands were cold from shifting rock after rock to bury his body. She could not bear the thought of going on without him, of never seeing his smiling face or feeling the warmth of his lips. Her face stung where her hot tears chilled in the dusk air as the sun began to set around her.

Then, from the hard earth and sparse grass beneath her, there grew a flower. And another and another, until the ground was covered in them. She stared in astonishment as a woman, so unbearably beautiful, rose up in a halo of light from the blossoming ground.

She put gentle hands on the woman's face, wiping away her tears.

When she spoke it was like the wind sighing in the trees, soothing like the waning chill of spring giving way to summer.

The woman listened as she told her what to do, of what she could do if only she were given the chance to. If only she had a name.

And the woman gave her one.

\---

“Ástríður.”

He spoke her name, syllables the mountain had not heard in a long, long time, that had first fallen so long ago from the lips of a grieving woman. She stilled suddenly trembling. She dropped Glanni to the ground, and with an agonised wail threw herself against the grave. She began to sob, the sound like falling rocks cracking on the ground.

Íþróttaálfurinn ignored her, rushing to Glanni's side as he struggled to sit up.

“Glanni? Are you ok?”

“I'm blaming all of this mess on you,” he said, as he flopped back onto the ground up with a groan.

Íþróttaálfurinn laughed, relief flooding through him, and he pulled Glanni close, holding him tightly against himself. He smiled into Glanni's shoulder, as he felt the other man's arms around him.

“Did- did I hear you say that you-”

“That I love you, yes.” It was so easy to say that Íþróttaálfurinn could even remember why it had taken him so long to say it at all.

“Oh...” he said faintly. “I- I don't know if- I”

“You don't have to say it,” Íþróttaálfurinn said, pulling back to look at him. “I already know.”

“That's very presumptuous of you,” Glanni said, looking down his nose at Íþróttaálfurinn, cheeks pink.

Íþróttaálfurinn grinned mischievously. “That doesn't make it less true.”

“Just shut up and kiss me,” Glanni muttered, tugging him closer by his scarf.

Íþróttaálfurinn did.

“Let's go home,” he said, helping Glanni to his feet. He thought of the warm bed they had left that morning, and despite it being the middle of the day, he found he couldn't wait to get back to it.

Ástríður was still crying, great howling wails spilling forth from where she lay curled by the grave. Íþróttaálfurinn didn't care, not after what she had done.

He began to lead the way down the mountain, but stopped when he realised Glanni had hesitated.

“Glanni? What are you doing?”

Glanni walked up to Ástríður, Íþróttaálfurinn didn't understand how he could look at her for so long, and knelt beside her. He leaned in, whispering something to her so quietly even Íþróttaálfurinn couldn't hear it. She stilled, and he could almost see her looking at him with wide, sad eyes.

He blinked, and she was gone. There were only flowers, peeping up through the cold earth, just starting to bud. Glanni stood, walking past Íþróttaálfurinn and starting down the mountain.

“What did you say to her?” he asked, catching up with him.

“Something she needed to hear.”

Íþróttaálfurinn didn't know what he meant by that. “Come on,” he said, shelving that thought for another day. “It's a few miles back to the balloon.”

“You mean I have to walk?!” Glanni yelped, coming to a stop.

“Yep.”

“Will you carry me?” he asked, hopefully.

“Nope. The exercise will do you good.”

“If this is what dating you is going to be like I'm starting to have second thoughts.”

“You know,” Íþróttaálfurinn said slowly, feeling suddenly filled with mischief. “ Last week Solla asked me if I was getting you a Valentine's Day present.”

He heard Glanni swear behind him, followed the thud of him tripping over.

“This is your fault you know,” he muttered into Íþróttaálfurinn's ear, long arms wrapped securely around his shoulders.

“If you wore more practical shoes this wouldn't have happened.”

This, being a sprained ankle and a piggy back down the mountain, although it was only the ankle that Glanni was complaining about.

“Well _sorry_ if I didn't plan my footwear around unforeseen trips up mountains, I'll be sure to do that next time,” he huffed.

Íþróttaálfurinn laughed, the sound clear as the air around them. The white blanket of clouds over heard had started to dissipate, revealing a blue sky underneath. The sun was high in the sky, bright through the receding clouds.

“I'll make it up to you when we get back,” he teased.

“Promise?” Glanni whispered in his ear.

“Promise.”

\---

It wasn't fair, it wasn't it wasn't it wasn't. She had given so much so much so much. But she had hurt them both and that wasn't what she had promised, it wasn't who she _was_. It wasn't what her name had been _for_.

He knelt beside her and she wanted to shy away, couldn't bear to see the look in his eyes, to remember what it had felt like to be so _loved_.

But then, he leaned in close, telling her what she needed to hear, and she remembered. She remembered, why she had so loved these creatures, she remembered what it was like, to be Flowers on the Mountain.

He said: _“I forgive you.”_

\---

It was spring, the snow was melting, and there were flowers on the mountain.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “No,” said Huw. “She was made for her lord. Nobody is asking her if she wants him. It is bitter twisting to be shut up with a person you are not liking very much. I think she was longing for the time when she was flowers on the mountain, and it is making her cruel, as the rose is growing thorns.”  
> ― Alan Garner, The Owl Service
> 
> It's done! The longest thing I have ever written! Originally I had this planned out to be 6 chapters long. As you can see, it turned out much much longer than that. There are lose ends that need tying up which will be in the sequels, the biggest of which, of course is will be about Glanni being 'not entirely human', which I am very excited to write about!
> 
> This entire thing was inspired by one of my favourite books/TV series, The Owl Service by Alan Garner. It's based on the Welsh myth of Blodeuwedd, a woman who was created out of flowers.  
> The title is taken from the Rasputina song 'Hunter's Kiss', but I thought putting that at the beginning of the fic would give too much away.


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